The World Beneath Their Fingers
by Cyprith
Summary: A hundred ways things could have happened between Belle and her Rumpelstiltksin. A collection of one-shots from prompts given to me on Tumblr. Some sad, some silly, most fit to break your heart. Gold/Belle.
1. Introduction

The World Beneath Their Fingers

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><p>First, an explanation:<p>

On Tumblr, people give me prompts and I use them to write Once Upon a Time one-shots. Rather than continue to spam ff.n with all my scribblings, I'm going to compile them here.

These stories do not all exist in the same cannon. Very rarely will you find a continuity between them. Some of them are more AU than others. Some are just strange and silly. Others are heartrendingly sad. But they're more or less all romances, and they pretty much all deal with Mr. Gold or Rumpelstiltskin.

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><p>Now, with that explained, if you would like to prompt me, you're more than welcome! Just head on over to Tumblr. My name is Cyprith there, too.<p>

But, as with all fantastic deals, there is a catch: All prompts must be five words or under.

This forces ya'll to leave me some wiggle room. Otherwise, I've found prompters want to give me chapter and verse, and while that's good for kinkmemes, I prefer to subvert expectation.

Beyond that, just sit back and enjoy!


	2. A Picture's Worth

Triple-dog-dare prompted: "the story behind the picture"

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><p><strong>A Picture's Worth<strong>, or, _One Thousand Words She Doesn't Understand_

__Gold/Belle

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><p>Rain sleets down on Storybrooke, a messy, bone-chilling mist of a storm that creeps through the cracks in any clothing and settles for the long haul. Regina is on her way to her office, the supple leather briefcase Henry picked out for her birthday tucked well within the protective confines of her vast black umbrella.<p>

She passes Gold outside the bakery and smiles, because she knows he loathes the chill with a passion, and because she knows it will settle in his bad leg and keep him from meddling much further than his pawnshop door for at least the rest of the week.

"What brings you out in this weather?" she calls when she is close enough for him to hear her over the pattering of rain on their umbrellas. "I seem to remember you melt when wet, Mr. Gold."

Always, Gold can be counted on for a nasty argument in this sort of weather. Or a foul and irredeemable mood full of threats and sharp teeth, at the very least. But today, when she speaks, he glances up and out and seems surprised to find it raining at all.

"Hmm? Oh, no, mayor. You have me confused with the man behind the curtain. Pay no attention, and all that."

And easy as that, they pass. Both heading on about their business, not an angry word between them.

When Regina reaches her office, she calls Sidney Glass immediately. It takes three days, but the man does what he does best, returns to her with a folder full of glossy nine-by-elevens. Most of them are pedantic, maddening, idiotic photos of Gold paying a parking meter, speaking with a waitress at the diner, or collecting the rent from an untold number of different, half-frightened faces.

But there is one picture, stained at the edges with the shadows of leaves.

It is middling afternoon, the sun slanting down onto the pavement and creeping under the parked cars scattered between timed-out meters. Gold stands in the open doorway of his shop, keys forgotten in one limp hand, his cane hovering in midair.

Outside the shop, to one side, stands a woman. She is wearing a yellow dress. Polka dots. Entirely unsuited to a woman of her age. Her hair is slipping from a messy bun held in place with two ink pens. Her face is half turned from the camera, but her shoulders are cast back. She is unafraid, and she is smiling.

It takes another moment, but then, yes—Gold, too, is smiling. Dumbstruck and unguarded. He looks... different. Smaller, somehow, though he has never been especially tall; vulnerable in a way she had not thought the man capable.

_Happy_.

Regina closes the folder and buries it in a drawer.

There is a story behind this picture, but it is not one she understands.

"Shut up," she says again. "You walked into a fire. On purpose. For _dramatic effect._"

He glares at her. She wields a threatening washcloth.

He glares at his flask instead.

Belle stifles a smile and sets to work.


	3. Diamonds and Gold

Anon prompted: music of the night

(Tom Waits song belongs to Tom Waits. Mr. Waits, I respect you greatly and I am making absolutely no money from the usage of your lyrics here, so please don't sue me.)

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><p><strong>Diamonds and Gold<strong>

Mr. Gold/Belle

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><p>Gold doesn't know how she does it. But then, he doesn't ask. And the Storybrooke mental hospital never calls—he is her emergency contact, next of kin—so it doesn't really matter anyway.<p>

But some nights, past midnight, when the clocks creep higher and unwind, she slips through the front door like a breeze on bare feet. Drops the needle onto Waits, and sways into his room.

_What some men will do here for diamonds… what some men will do here for gold._

And he knows, he knows. She's not right. This… isn't right. She's so far out of her head she can smell the stars when it rains. But, breadcrumbs or no, she always remembers the way home. And that has to count for something. He… _he _has to count for something. If she keeps coming here. If, even when she cannot remember her own name, when she cannot tell her stories, when she spends her days throwing color at the walls and screaming, _screaming_—if, even then, even through _that_, she remembers _him…_

_They're wounded, but they just keep on climbin'. And they sleep by the side of the road._

She comes into his room dancing, smiling, her arms held like a jewelry box ballerina above her head.

"You remember when I taught you to dance?" she whispers through the dark, illuminated only through the back-lit green numbers of his alarm clock.

"Not like that, you never did."

"They're all like this, anymore." She smirks. The left side of her face does not move. "Hands up. Gimme your money. Now _dance_."

_Mad as a hatter; you're thin as a dime…_

"Perceptive as always."

She shrugs. "I'm not that broken."

"So bitter," he says, he tries to laugh.

Her nose still crinkles when she smiles, though half of it no longer moves.

"So young," she says. "Or so I hear. Won't I be one-hundred next week?"

He is half sitting-up in bed. He reaches out a hand. "Diamond anniversary, I believe."

She nods. She sways. She takes his hand and tumbles into his arms. "Diamonds and gold."

_Go out to the meadow, the hills are agreen…_

"You're too thin, love," he whispers into her hair. "Barely here at all."

Belle cocks her chin up at him and smiles.

"So sing me a rainbow," she whispers. "Steal me a dream."


	4. Walking on Fire

013Bela prompted: "walking on fire"

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><p><strong>Walking on Fire<br>**Rumpelstiltskin/Belle

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><p>Rumpelstiltskin is the master of many magics. He can spin gold from straw and straw from gold. He can fashion dresses from spider webs and princesses from matchstick girls. He can pit ogres against ogres in a sudden civil war so vicious it decimates the species. He can make crops grow where the soil is dead. He has managed the impossible, poisoning a spell, creating a weapon for them against even the powerful fairies.<p>

He _thinks_ he can walk on fire.

He can't.

Belle could have told him that, of course, but he needed burns up to the knee to prove it.

"You have to admit, dearie, the showmanship was _quite _impressive."

"Shut up."

He sits in a black leather chair, his bare, burnt legs extended, and Belle seated on a cushion between them. He clutches a flask in one white-knuckled fist.

Gingerly, Belle shifts his right leg at the knee, so careful not to touch the thick, ropy scars that burrow in like dragon-dens, all the way to the bone. She does this without thinking, for all the good saving him some pain does, now. Idiot walked into a damn fire. She might as well toss him over her shoulder, carry him to the nearest healer and have it done with.

Belle eyes his burns, pauses to consider this. She has a few spells of her own. She could probably manage it. But then, she knows, even if she got him anywhere, he'd end up cursing the poor doctor. Rumpelstiltskin is many things, some of them heartrending in their ferocity.

Tonight, he is fussy.

And mostly drunk.

Belle pulls the bowl of cool water closer to her side.

"I need to clean these. It will hurt quite a lot."

"You need to leave well enough alone, is what you need-do," he mutters. "But far be it for me to distract you from your sadistic little pleasures."

This man is feared in kingdoms for leagues upon leagues in every direction. His name is _whispered_ for fear he might hear. The dwarves, in fact, refuse to speak his name at all. They have their own word for him, _Ungeheuer, _monster.

And yet, Belle finds taking a stern tone with him solves most problems.

"Shut up," she says again. "You walked into a fire. On purpose. For _dramatic effect._"

He glares at her. She wields a threatening washcloth.

He glares at his flask instead.

Belle stifles a smile and sets to work.


	5. What Curses Do

Anon Prompted: Pregnancy angst.

And I subverted it. Like I subvert everything.

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><p><strong>What Curses Do<strong>

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><p>She'd been hoping.<p>

She'd been _so_ hoping.

Belle stares at the fairy, waiting for the world to shift, the joke to end, the story to reach a few tendrils out of this deadened abyss and grope towards _happily ever after. _She can't breathe. She feels like something huge and awful has stuck her in the chest and there is nothing but dark, dark and _nothing _on the edges of her vision. As if the war weren't enough. As if the fighting and the trickery and the bad enchantments and imprisonment weren't enough.

"Barren?" she repeats.

She'd been so hoping. When her blood stopped. She'd thought, _maybe_. She'd thought, _this could work. _She'd thought, _he'll be so happy. _

The fairy hovers in front of her, dripping light like dust from high shelves.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers and Belle hates her voice, hates how kind and gentle this not-woman is, dropping magic _dirt _on her bedroom floor and saying there is nothing she can do—so sorry, nothing she can do—when she has flower fields of children laughing back at home. When she has her lovers and her friends and a whole world full of life and light to go back to.

When Belle does not even know where her lover is. When she can't tell him, "_There was a baby, but I lost her. She had fingers. So small, you wouldn't even see her in the grass. And I lost her. And now there will never be another baby. Not ever."_

Because that's what curses do.

"And there's nothing you can do?" she asks and her voice is so even, so blisteringly cool she does not recognize herself. "There's no spell?"

"Magic can't bring back the dead, dear."

"It can grow plants where the soil is dead."

"But never children. I'm sorry."

Never children.

Because that's what curses do.

Her fingernails are bleeding, but it doesn't matter. She has clenched her hands in her skirt so no one will see the stains she leaves. More blood. As if there hasn't been enough. As if there will never be enough.

"And you can't tell me where Rumpelstiltskin is. You can't find him. You can't take me to him. You can't give him a message from me."

"No, dear, I'm sorry." The fairy's voice is so small. Belle hardly hears it past the hateful, roaring accusations of the voices in her ears. "I'm afraid you've lost him too."

Because that's what curses do.


	6. Dungeons Deep and Black

Sevysev was brave and risked another prompt. This prompt: "They've come to take you."

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><p><strong>Dungeons Deep and Black<strong>

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><p>Gold sits with his back to the wall, his bad leg extended away from him, eyes fixed to the war-map on the table. Belle stands across from him.<p>

"They've come to take you," she says. "You'll never see your boy again."

And then, rather ruins the effect by dancing in bunny-slippered feet with a baby in her arms.

"Isn't that right, my love?" she murmurs, waggling her fingers at their cooing, pudgy-fisted child. "Papa will lose all his wee plastic men to me, I'll throw him in the dungeon, and we'll never have to worry about his messy forgotten tea-mugs again. How does that sound?"

Gold moves a battalion while she is distracted—it's not cheating if it's war—then can't help smiling himself.

"I suspect it's a rather good thing you were never queen," he says. "Worse than Regina, you'd be."

Belle smiles. Wee Bobby gurgles, tries to catch with his hand the funny face she makes at him.

"I'd be a lovely queen. I'd come out to wave and smile and throw books to small children. Everyone would adore me. Then I'd sequester myself in the library and leave you to do the awful things like tax rations and trade embargos. I see you cheating, there."

"Mounted cavalry."

"And I've told you before, the mounted cavalry don't ride dragons. Put those back."

He stands, smiling with all his teeth, and draws close. "Make me."

Belle arches an eyebrow. "I have an oubliette just perfect for you, you know."

"Not until young Robert's put to bed, you don't," he says and takes their child from her arms, holds him up above his head and swings him wide, both of them laughing. "And you're going t'stay up all night, are you not, m'boy? Certainly don't won't your papa sent off, no. Cannae have that."

Gold sees his wife in his son's eyes. He sees himself in the wee beastie's too-wide mouth and feels as though his chest might burst.

When he brings his boy down from the sky, Belle reaches out, traces a fold in his tattered tartan robe.

"Come to bed, papa," she half-laughs, smiling.

Gold puts his son down for the night. He reads a ridiculous story about three bears, creeps out by the glow of a sea-shelled night light.

And he comes to bed.


	7. Stand Her Last

Sevysev prompted: "one last meal together"

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><p><strong>Stand Her Last<strong>

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><p>The crows have sent their warning; Gaston comes tomorrow. He is riding towards the castle even now, and as far as castles go, Rumpelstiltskin's isn't very big. The siege will be short and bloody. It is one wizard against an army of Gaston's thieves.<p>

And Rumpelstiltskin will do nothing.

Belle stands in the kitchen, staring at the fire, and despite this, she is so cold she cannot feel her fingers.

"Run away with me," she'd pleaded. "Leave the castle empty. We'll figure it out. We'll make it."

But Rumpelstiltskin had laughed, ear-piercingly bright. "And leave all my lovely books behind? I rather think not, dearie"

She could read the lie in his eyes, so he hid those from her. He said sweet things, platitudes, and that he'd like to have one last supper at her side.

But Rumpelstiltskin will do nothing. And Belle is standing before the fire, but her body is deathly cold.

She is angry, she realizes, when she catches herself contemplating how far she'll need to take the fire before he cannot stop it burning his castle down.

She had not been angry when her father tried to sign her away in a contract with Gaston. She had not been angry when he later bartered her life for peace. She had not been angry when she came here, locked up in a darkened castle with a man who called himself a monster, alone with her own awful thoughts for hours on end. She had not been angry when she fell in love. She had not been angry when she told him, when he shook her and screamed and swore that he could not be loved. She had not been angry, then.

But Rumpelstiltskin will do nothing, and she is _livid _now.

Belle turns and walks from the kitchen. She strides through the hallways blind, because she cannot see through her rage, her hate, her terrible dreams all come to fruition. She finds his armory, his dragon's hoard of magical trinkets, and she locks herself inside.

Belle emerges an hour later in dark leather armor, a sword in her hand and a dagger at her side.

A dagger with a name.

Rumpelstiltskin _will _do something. Or tonight, they burn together.


	8. Nightbears

013bela prompted: Bears everywhere

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><p><strong>Nightbears<strong>

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><p>Gold wakes at Belle's scream and he is upright before his eyes are open, reaching out to her across the sudden gulf of bed between them. She's kicking, fighting off her attacker, struggling to breathe and curse and pry out its eyes, judging by the claws of her hands, and she flails right off the side of the bed.<p>

Somehow, because they are both tangled in the sheets, he falls with her.

She wakes when her back hits the ground and blacks his eyes with a flying elbow. Now they're both swearing, though hers is interspersed with, "Sorry! Oh, fuck, sorry!" and he is half laughing, because tomorrow Regina will ask him what happened, and he will tell her Belle is a monster in bed.

"Oh, that looks awful. God, I'm wretched." Her breathing is still ragged, but she touches cool fingers to his temple and sucks in her bottom lip. "Do you need me to get you some ice?"

"No, dear. I'm fine. I've had worse."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure." They are still tangled on the floor, but he draws her up, her back to his chest and holds her close as she relearns how to breathe. "What happened?"

"Bears," she says, "everywhere. And if you laugh, you will have deserved that black eye."

Gold closes his eyes—it hurts—and hides his smile in her hair.

"Wouldn't dream of it, dear."


	9. Or

Sevysev – "I'd do anything for her."

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><p><strong>Or<strong>

* * *

><p>His wife has been in labor for hours. All day and well into the night. He is not allowed inside.<p>

She has lost so, so much blood. He sees it when they bring out the sheets to wash. He does what he can. He helps. They have only two sets of sheets. He washes one, and then the other, over and over again. He helps until there are crimson half-moons beneath his nails. He hobbles to the field and back, there and back, returning with what helpful herbs he knows.

And still he is not allowed inside. And still his wife screams.

The midwife's assistant leaves at sunset, her face ashen and drawn. She returns hours later with a witch at her side. The two disappear into his cottage.

And still he is not allowed inside. And still his wife pleads. And still, there is no child.

It is dark when he can no longer hear his wife speaking to her gods. When the witch opens the door and clomps her way outside.

"What's happened?" he demands. He means to demand. It comes out a broken plea.

He is a coward and he still hears the battlefield when he sleeps.

The witch says nothing. She purses her lips, eyes the horizon, lights the bowl of her pipe and puffs.

"What can I do? Please, I have to help. I have to do something," he says. His chest burns. His shoulders shake. "I'd do anything for her."

The witch eyes him, chews the stem of her pipe.

"Her?" she says. "Or your son?"

And Rumpelstiltskin makes a choice no man should ever have to make.


	10. Cursebreak

Oldandnewfirm caught me at my multitude of Labyrinth references and prompted: "As the world falls down"

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><p><strong>Curse-break<strong>

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><p>Gold had expected that when the curse broke, he would find himself imprisoned again, staring at rotting wooden bars and worm-dead earth. He'd expected he'd starve, a forgotten monster in the empty belly of the earth.<p>

He had not expected Storybrooke to break apart in drifting chunks, storefronts and houses popping like soap bubbles in the rain.

And he certainly had not expected to find himself—and everyone—suddenly occupying a grassy field roughly the same breadth and depth that Storybrooke had been.

Of course neither, it seemed, had a lot of people. Gold finds Ruby and Archie surprisingly good at sorting out their clothing in a hurry. He finds Regina less surprisingly good at doing quite a lot of bellowing from the far end of the field.

He considers worrying about her for a moment. He doesn't have much, but he still has his cane, the fairy wand sleeping inside.

His attention wanders. A few yards off, the librarians break from their sleepy-headed cluster.

And suddenly, Belle.

_Belle_.

From half a way off, she meets his eyes, and smiles—spreads her arms and mouths, "_Well?"_

His leg still throbs when he shifts his weight. Gold looks down. His new shoes are scuffed. His suit is surprisingly unwrinkled. There is a freckle on his right hand.

He is human. Again—still.

Gold grins back at her and starts the long walk across the sod.


	11. Stained Sheets

Beautylily prompted: "Messy silk sheets"

Beautylily is immensely brave.

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><p><strong>Stained Sheets<strong>

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><p>A woman sits on the sidewalk, fingernails digging in her knees. The afternoon suns plays off her shaking shoulders like a hot waterfall, catching in the runs of the silk sheet clutched tight around her shoulders. The tops of her bare feet are thatched with blood, the delicate lines pottery makes when it shatters on a tiled floor.<p>

Instinct turns his gaze away. _Don't look— she wouldn't want— not you— not you…_

Instinct turns it back. _She is in pain._

Gold stops the car.

Closer, he sees the welted half-moons where her fingernails have slipped and resettled. He sees the purple bruises on her calves, and on her thighs, where her skirt slips above her knees. The bruises there resolve themselves by numbers—one through four, and a thumb for good measure.

Something slick and dark and wicked encroaches on the edges of his vision. A monster howls in his chest, thunders on his ribcage, claws and shakes and screams and curses, shrieks demands in demon tongues, hammering, _hammering_ until he hears its teeth gnashing in his ears

He can see her face behind the curtain of her hair; can see purple high on her cheekbone. But her cheeks are dry.

Her cheeks are dry.

Gently—_don't startle—_he presses the car door shut behind him and eases around the nose to sit at her side. She does not look up. He almost whispers her name, touches her hair, pulls her close and tucks her head beneath his chin.

A near thing.

He almost says, "I'm so sorry," and "I love you"—in either case, three words a thousand years too late.

Because it is summer. And Belle is married. And Belle is sitting on a sidewalk with no shoes, caped in torn and dirty silk. And her nails are broken, leaving bloody crescents in the bruises on her knees. And behind her, the door to her apartment is still open, a stray dog sniffing at the mat that does not say _Welcome_. And Belle is married. And Belle is married. And Belle does not know him now.

This is a different woman, a cursed woman, trapped in a cage he built for her himself.

"Are you alright?" Gold whispers. The monster in his chest whimpers on. "Can I help?"

Belle looks at him. The curtain of her hair parts and he sees her eyes, blue and clear and cold.

"I think I killed him, Rum," she says.

This is a different woman. But he is a monster she still knows.

Gold reaches out. His fingers brush her arm beneath the silk.

"Let's get you home."


	12. A Hundred

Bleedingsunsets-openhorizons prompted: with or without your permission

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><p><strong>A Hundred<strong>

* * *

><p>Belle walks away from the queen's carriage knowing she has read this story in a hundred books. She has read this curse break in a hundred true loves' kisses. She has read a hundred last pages with a hundred happily ever afters.<p>

But Belle is first and foremost a merchant-king's daughter. And she has seen a hundred children born feet first, already on the march. And she has seen a hundred soldiers fall from the garrisons like feathers, stuck like geese with one hundred different arrows. And she has seen a hundred walls fall under the force of a hundred massive feet. And she has watched a hundred of her people starve—

And she has watched a hundred more.

And a hundred more.

And another hundred more.

And Belle knows that in life, there is no final page. There are no happily ever after—it takes luck to find a single _happily _at all. And Belle knows that if she wants to stop seeing these hundreds upon thousands of tattered, bloodied pages… well, then it is up to her alone.

So she returns to her kingdom through a hole in a wall where the stones jut out like broken teeth. She slips into the castle through the servant's door, unnoticed by the slender pick of guards left roaming through the streets.

Her father is the first to spot her on her way through the winding halls. He greets her before he knows her—"Madam Sorcerer," he calls, a witches' honorific—and perhaps he is not wrong.

She smiles, she turns.

"Papa," she says.

And he breaks, so simply.

"Belle? Can that really be you? But how? The contract…"

"Our sorcerer," she says, "is not a man of his word."

And her father knows her well enough to ask no more.

Gaston is not as wise. He does not see the night settled in her once-blue eyes. He does not mind the way her fingers twitch and jump above the war-maps, building villages and turning ogres with the crook of a thumb. He sees a memory, a girl-child in yellow with shoulders bare, waiting for the masters of her city to come home. (He does not realize the master already _has._)

He walks with her one night, on her way from another pointless council full of loud arguments and quiet fingers.

"I'll be glad when this war is over," he says.

The tapestries are fraying. She makes a note to tear them down.

"Of course," she says, though there will be another war after this one. Just as long, but less bloody. Fought by child-heroes in strange streets.

"Dreadful bloody work. And such a shame your mother could not live long enough to bear a son."

The tapestries could be hiding burn-marks, she thinks, from the siege before last. Wouldn't do to show a weakness to the parades of visiting noblemen. She'll have to have the walls cleaned. New tapestries, though wool is scarce.

"Hardly see the difference another mouth would make. Unless my brother would know the words to feed a kingdom."

Gaston's fingers brush her arm. Belle steps away, pulls back a tapestry to see what it hides.

Gaston doesn't notice. He returns like a dog to her side.

"But you, at least… Belle…" he smiles, so sweetly. His eyes are warm and full, like a stagnant pond in high summer. "This is not woman's work. These strategies and this planning… You must be exhausted. We ask too much of you."

Belle sees him. Later they will say she does not. Later they call her blind. Later, they will say she eats her young, destroys her lovers. Later they will say she finds her happily ever after in the belly of an oven.

But today, Belle sees. Gaston is a strong man. Handsome. Tall. And just as wretched and empty as he has ever been.

(She remembers another man, clever smirk and long fingers. She forgets him again as quickly.)

"I'm suited for this," she says.

Gaston laughs. He laughs at her.

"Oh, Belle. Oh, my sweet Belle. One day, when we are married, we will look back on this—"

"No."

It is not her usual protest, the coy and fluttering deferment of before, and it stops him like a dagger to the chest.

"No? Belle, I… No?" His smile turns cold, jagged at the edges. "I don't think you understand. Your father and I have set the contract already."

"Then I wish my father and yourself a long and happy marriage."

He snarls, teeth bared, ever so much more the beast than she will ever be. They will call her blind, one day, but she despairs if _they_ will ever see.

"Belle, don't get _smart," _he spits._ "_It doesn't suit you. We _will_ be married."

(She remembers another man. She remembers pleading—_marry me_.)

"I will not marry, Gaston. I will never marry. You may as well begin searching elsewhere now and save yourself the trouble."

(She remembers. He laughed and walked away.)

"This isn't a choice, Belle." He grabs her arm and squeezes, corners her with the breadth of his shoulders, his height and heavy limbs. "With or without your permission, we will—"

A viper, lips twisted, she lunges. She twists her fingers. She hisses ancient tongues. She smashes their mouths together.

And with a fat, wet _smack_, a toad tumbles to the floor.

Belle smiles, all edges and corners and painful, hard-fought history. She nudges the wretched, bewildered creature out of her path with the toe of a boot and continues on her way.

Alone.

Because Belle has seen a hundred kisses go slantwise from the plan. And she knows the world is hurtful and unhappy and unless the weak find magic, they will be crushed beneath the soles of armies on the march.

And Belle walks on. Back to her quarters. Back to her war-plans and plotting, her mouth full of fraying words and old magic, the refugees of a hundred forgotten stories.

Because once upon a time, Belle read a hundred books…

And some of them read _her_.


	13. 3PM

Awesomethingsandsuch prompted: Yellow Wallpaper

Because, she said, it's marginally happier than dead!Belle.

* * *

><p><strong>3 PM<strong>

* * *

><p>Every Monday at precisely 3:00PM, Gold walks to Belle's apartment. He lets himself inside with the extra key she kept above the doorframe and takes off his shoes at the door. He sits in her kitchen, among all her bowls and pots and pans, right where she left them, and together, they all collect dust.<p>

It's a truly ridiculous kitchen, of course. Ugliest room he has ever seen, save for Regina's woolen pinstripe suit of an office. The wooden table is ancient and dented, painted white, but stained with jam. He doesn't know where she could possibly have found her kitchen chairs. Gods know he'd never have bought or sold anything so crooked and malformed.

But Belle had loved them. She'd re-painted them. She'd even asked him for advice—"what colors, do you think?"—and then promptly ignored him in favor of half a rainbow, when he'd suggested she strip them and pick a stain instead.

"I don't want them to look _naked_," she'd said. "They're at home now. They need nice pajamas."

They don't match. Green stripes and white clouds—they clash horribly with the yellow wallpaper.

And her bright, shiny red oven.

Her apartment still smells like vanilla and boiling fruit. Gold sits in her kitchen chairs, one by one, and the weeks pass, and he touches nothing. And he should do something about that oven. He'll have to rent the apartment out again, soon, and that oven is an eyesore, only…

Only, every Monday, at precisely 3:00pm, Belle would waltz backward into his shop, hauling a giant blue porcelain plate full of some new recipe she'd found and made. _Rescued, _she called it. She'd come in with molasses cookies or short bread or sugar drops—or maybe nipples of Venus today—and she'd say, "I've rescued another one, Mr. Gold. All the way back in 641.5, would you believe it?"

And she'd say, "Have you eaten yet? It's chicken soup day at the diner."

And he'd decline—he always declined—and she'd say, "Well, this is why I feed you. You never eat."

Of course, he'd argued that, too. And at first, he'd tried to find a tactful way of declining the cookies, the muffins, the cupcakes, the tarts, the cakes and jams and soufflés and occasional, experimental truffles. And when that hadn't worked, they'd had a blazing row—only, he'd shouted and she hadn't.

Belle had looked at him with arms crossed and she'd smiled and she'd said, "Have a damn cookie. You're only cranky because you haven't eaten."

And she'd been right. So he took her cookies, her muffins, her cupcakes, her tarts, her cakes and jams and soufflés and occasional, experimental truffles and thanked her. And she'd smile—she'd had such a dazzling smile—and say, "You're welcome," and sometimes, when he looked like he might fuss, "they're a gift, Mr. Gold. Friends are allowed to give gifts."

Only, then the rickety old oven he'd left in that apartment for far too long finally broke. She'd called him to tell him, to tell him, "not to worry—because I know you will. I'll manage with just the microwave. No hurry."

And friends are allowed to give gifts, but he is awkward and fumbling, because he has never had a friend, not really, and doesn't know how to go about it properly. So he buys her a new oven, delivered to her door the day after she calls. And it had to be bright red, because one day, as Ruby drove past the shop, Belle had told him, "I never understood the allure of a bright red car. Personally, I'd rather have a bright red oven. And a new set of copper pots."

So Gold sits at her table and he smells her baking, though she isn't here. And he looks out the window and he watches the road, though he knows—he, of all people, knows—she is never coming back.

This Monday, this particular Monday, when he feels he can bear the world again, Gold leaves the empty apartment on Drury Lane and returns to his pawnshop.

In the kitchenette, he sees one of her plates. Jammie Dodgers from god knows when, the blackberry jam she'd made herself, from an old recipe she'd rescued and berries she'd found somewhere behind his house.

Because he'd mentioned once he could not find Jammie Dodgers here for love or money.

Because she'd thought they'd make him _happy. _

Gold shatters the plate against the wall, those last three cookies leaving three last distinct imprints on the paper. Two eyes, he thinks, a slanted sort of mouth. Belle would have laughed. Despite the mess, despite her broken plate, Belle would have laughed.

His cane clatters sideways, forgotten. Gold sinks to the floor with his face in his hands.

Belle would have laughed.


	14. Dragons, Only Sleeping

Ashymolassy prompted: spice in the sun

* * *

><p><strong>Dragons, Only Sleeping<strong>

* * *

><p>Belle is dead.<p>

Long dead.

Cold and putrid in the ground for a quarter of a decade now.

Or burned to ash. Always such a trouble to _shovel up _the corpses after they rain down from the sky, after all. Far easier to build the pyre up around them.

But perhaps he should have troubled himself to find what happened to her body, even if there hadn't been enough left of her to fill a broken teacup.

Because Gold was sure, so sure, that his Belle was dead and gone and rotted long before he ever made this _fucking_ curse—

So it is with some surprise he finds her, one sunny morning, sitting on his pawnshop's front stoop.

Hospital scrubs. Bare feet. Her lovely brown hair is tangled with thorns and briars; the touch of a burst berry marks a purple stain on her right temple. She smells, even from this distance, of dried lemon rind, crushed fruit, new spring grass and spice in the sun—

And the sun is in her hair and Belle is here and _whole_ and smiling—

And it's a damn good thing she's fast, because when his leg gives out, Gold is too far away from the side of the building to stand.

She catches him under the arm, and she laughs, breathless, without a sound. There is water in her eyes—an ocean's worth. He thinks he might be drowning in oceans of his own.

"_Shh_," she breathes. "_Shh_."

And he is not elegant. He is not calm. He is desperate. He stumbles into her, all hope and need and searching hands. Finds her mouth with his and she is air—she_ is_ _here!_—and he cannot feel his legs. He is standing only because she is standing. Somewhere, his cane is on the ground.

"I love you," he whispers. And again. And again. For some time, it is the only thing he can say.

Through it all, she smiles. She breathes, "_Shh_."

He holds her. _He holds her. _

And when the ogre's fist around his chest eases, he feels the sunlight like a blanket on his back. He feels the woman in his arms, so wild and whole and smiling, god, _smiling_. He clenches joy between his teeth like a knife. He breathes, he runs his knuckles down her cheek, asks, "How?"

Two streets over, sirens blare. Distantly, he hears the wail, hears tires squeal, but his mind is on Belle's fingers on his jaw. She strokes his chin, flattens her hand and grins, seems fascinated to find stubble there. He catches her hand, presses a plea into the corner of her mouth, whispers again, "_How_? You were… gone. And I looked, I _looked_, but Belle. _Belle_…"

She takes her hand back, touches her mouth, her throat. (Her lips are scarred, he sees. Burnt.) She shakes her head.

_I cannot speak._

She is so beautiful.

She is also _real_.

Gold can feel himself shaking. They are both shaking, alive again at the prospect of touch. He presses his forehead to hers, can feel her breasts against the lapels of his suit.

"What happened?"

Belle smiles. She shifts his weight, so he is standing on his good leg, and crouches down to retrieve his cane. He watches her in wonder thinking, simply—_yes. _

She presses his cane beneath his fingers. Their eyes meet.

Belle mimes drinking, mimes birds. Makes a crown with her fingers, then grins, so sharp—her teeth are so sharp—and stabs a fist into his chest.

_I dropped a cup. I killed the queen._

There is something new in her. Something wild and _ancient_ and untamed. Something _powerful—_and no, he realizes, it is not new, not really.

She is a dragon. She has only been sleeping, and today, at last, she spread her wings.

Gold laughs. He laughs and kisses her again, combs his fingers through her wild hair and whispers her name—_Belle, Belle_—a litany, a prayer, the cure to a curse. He feels magic running rampant through his veins. He feels gold threads tightening, tying them together once again.

"We're free?" he asks.

She dances in the circle of his arms. She tips back her head. She grins.

_Yes. _He hears her voice in his chest, in the fall of the sunlight on her face. _We're free._


	15. Towers in the Sun

Anon prompted: She runs her father's laundromat

* * *

><p><strong>Towers in the Sun<strong>

* * *

><p>It's a sunny Tuesday morning when Gold decides to kill Regina.<p>

Something quick, something bloody. Doesn't matter. He might use something very high and a helpful _push _in the right direction. Or another curse, though those seem to have a way of spectacularly failing right at the moment of critical mass. Perhaps, this time, he'll use his bare hands and _squeeze _until she finally gives up the game and _bloody well_ _dies_.

Gold thinks he'd very much enjoy using his cane, but given recent events, that _particular _means to an end might be a bit… tacky.

In any case, soon he'll be picking pieces of Regina from his suit. And Emma will make herself a nuisance at first, of course. But with Henry all to herself, he's sure she'll come around.

Because it's a sunny Tuesday morning, and Gold is standing in a laundromat-slash-drycleaner called _The Tower. _And beside him, stacked along the wall like soldiers, are washer units labeled _Scourges_ and driers labeled _Flame. _

And in the far left corner of the squat, one story building, a woman has just leapt out the window.

Gold takes a deep breath—then the first step.

(It's a sunny Tuesday morning. His body shouldn't hurt like this.)

"Is my company so undesirable, Miss French?" he asks. His voice sounds unfamiliar—(too familiar)— gentled, half a song. "Or were you summoned by the hydrangeas?"

He settles a hand on the windowsill. Chipping paint flakes beneath his palm.

Outside, Belle crouches between the building and the heavy row of blooming bushes in desperate need of a trim, and smiles.

_His Belle._ His Belle, dead and lost for the last twenty-eight years, found again in a bloody _laundromat _of all places, whole and hale, and Gold will kill Regina. He will nail her to a fucking _wall_—but right now, today, _here, _Belle is freeing her skirt from the groping, gnarled hand of an old bush and her blue eyes are brighter than the sky.

"It was very pressing business," she says, frees her skirt and somehow manages to look _dignified_, though she has pitched face-first out a window, and there are flower petals in her hair. "Absolutely urgent. I'm sure you understand."

Gold reminds himself to breathe. He reminds himself that whatever else she is—(_alive, alive, alive)—_she does not remember him. They've never met. She doesn't know him. He is only a man she does not like, coming to collect money she does not have.

But just the same, she's smiling. She's smiling, and gods, he'd forgotten. For so many years, he's held on to a chipped cup full of so many regrets and so many missed chances that he'd actually _forgotten _her smile.

It is only with effort Gold keeps himself from memorizing it now.

"And your pressing engagement with the shrubbery wouldn't have anything to do with yet another of your father's overdue loans?" he asks.

It's a sunny Tuesday morning and Belle lifts a hand to shield her eyes.

"My father does make quite a lot of those, doesn't he?"

"Along with his propensity for rather questionable side businesses."

"I might have mentioned Game of Thorns was an awful idea."

Gold cannot stop staring. Distantly, in the hind part of his brain still plotting the numerous ways Regina may meet her grand demise, he thinks maybe he should try.

"I've read the loan papers, Mr. Gold," Belle says, face straight, shoulders back. His eyes follow the tiny red scratches the branches left. She looks like a queen. "My father thinks he's a business man, but you and I both know those terms weren't fair."

This is familiar. This is easy. He learns to breathe again.

"Ah, but those were the terms. And your father signed. Quite happily, as I remember."

"And I love him, but he's often an idiot." She smiles. History dances in the dust motes between them. "Listen, if I took you out to dinner, do you think maybe you could change your mind?"

"You're bribing me with food, Miss French?"

"Oh no," she laughs. "You'll be paying."

Her smile is infectious.

(It's a sunny Tuesday morning and Gold wants, so badly, to reach through the window and brush the flower petals from her hair.)

"I'm not sure you quite grasp the art of the deal," he says. He does not say, _"Come home with me."_

She seems to hear it just the same.

"Give me your hand," Belle says, and doesn't wait. She takes it, throws a leg over the windowsill and leaps right back inside.

(Practice, he thinks, and wants to laugh. This isn't the first tower she's climbed.)

Two feet on the ground and she's still holding his hand. Gold feels her heat like a promise—like home.

"Now what?" he asks, his voice too soft for deals or debts.

"You've rescued me. If Henry can be trusted, that makes you my prince."

"And princes don't come to collect on defaulted loans, I expect?"

"No." Belle grins. "Princes don't."

He smiles. "Very well, then. Dinner at eight?"

She laughs. She accepts. She is still holding his hand.

Tomorrow, Gold will kill Regina. But today, it is a sunny Tuesday morning, and everything is right with the world.


	16. An Ending

whatothershenanigans prompted: Belle has a gun

* * *

><p><strong>An Ending<strong>

* * *

><p>Gold has felt war drums shake a burning horizon, an army of ogres on the march. He has listened to the roar of a dragon, heart stone ripped from its still flaming chest. He has heard a dozen mothers crying over the broken bodies of their sons. He knows the sound his own bones make when they break.<p>

Nothing holds a candle to the heartbeat in his ears.

Belle stands in his doorway with a gun.

Her hair is wild, briar-riotous curls. She wears one of Regina's black dresses, her feet bare, mud-flecked, thatched with tiny red whorls.

He whispers her name. Her eyes alight. He knows who sent her here.

"Give me the knife," she says.

He sees the .44 clenched tightly in her fist. He knows he should be wary.

But he remembers Zoso, knows too well the weight of a burdened curse.

"I've missed you, dear," he tells her and Belle bares her teeth. She walks into his foyer, kicks the front door shut behind her.

"You don't," she snarls.

Gold does not retreat. He remains where he stands, shoulders in the doorway, facing this new beast.

Absurdly, he thinks, _she's changed._

"Belle," he tries.

"Shut up." She prowls forward, jaw set, leaves the shadow imprint of wet feet upon his floor. "Give me the knife."

And Gold does not retreat. He should, he thinks. He should raise his cane—the wand inside—and fight. Should grab her—hold her—until her wickedness subsides. He should move. He should demand.

But Belle has a gun and he is so, so tired. And he cannot feel his hands.

"I love you," he tells her.

She lifts the gun. "You don't."

"I'd have come to find you. If I'd known."

"You knew."

"Is that what Regina told you?" his mouth twists, agony and spite. "Would you like to hear what she told me?"

Her gun does not waver. "She helped me. She helped me when no one else would."

Gold takes a step forward. "_How_?"

Moonlight tumbles through the rainbow of stained glass, paints sorry, saddened colors on her borrowed black dress. Belle bares her teeth, shoulders tight, a monster about to spring. "Give me the knife."

Gold takes another step.

"Tell me my name."

The gun slides down. "I'll start with your knees."

"Tell me my name, Belle."

"I'll break you," she snarls. She's crying. "Leave you to rot. _Like you left me_."

The muzzle of the gun finds the very center of his chest.

Gold stops. Their eyes lock. So gently, he twines his hand over hers. Their fingers double on the trigger. He whispers again, "Tell me my name."

Belle does.

And fires.


	17. Her Strange and Midnight Teas

Anon prompted: He didn't ask for tomatoes.

This one too an unaccountably long time to get to. Hm.

* * *

><p><strong>Her Strange and Midnight Teas<strong>

* * *

><p>He finds Belle lying on her back across the dining room table, her hands folded on her stomach, her stocking feet crossed sweetly at the ankle. It is freshly past three in the morning. Her silver shoes rest one atop the other on his chair.<p>

Rumpelstiltskin had expected she'd go insane eventually, trapped in a dusty castle with only a monster here for company.

He had not expected it'd be so soon. Or that it'd look quite like this.

"I'm almost afraid to ask," he says, by way of greeting.

Belle does not look at him, but in the dusky moonlight, he sees the corner of her bowed mouth quirk, and it is suddenly somewhat hard to breathe.

"Good morning. Can you not sleep, either?"

He edges a little closer. (It is absurd to be afraid of his own familiar table)

"Is that what this is?"

"I'm counting the stars on your ceiling."

Rumpelstiltskin looks up. A flaking map of the night scowls down at him. Hm. He'd forgotten he'd put that there.

"How many are they?" he asks out of genuine curiosity.

But Belle shrugs and laughs, "I've lost count."

So thick and warm, her voice does strange things to his stomach. Rumpelstiltskin puts a hand there, in case she has cast some sort of spell. But no, no. He is undamaged (well, _relatively_) and whole. There's no magic there, no curse. Belle is only tired.

And can't say he blames her. Must be hard, losing one's mind in another man's castle. So many… unfamiliar crevices to check.

Rumpelstiltskin realizes he is staring—(however did that happen?)—and Belle is watching him, half smiling. She knows a secret, he sees it in her eyes, but he can't for the life of him fathom it.

"There's room for two," she says, and pats the table next to her.

"Ah. No. No, thank you." He shifts. Tugs on his sleeves. Rocks high on his heels and down again. He feels oddly underdressed, but it is just past three in the morning, and by rights he should not be wearing clothes at all.

"Have you something more interesting planned, then?" Belle asks.

"Don't you think you should go to bed?"

"The dungeons are cold this time of year," her smile is a beacon, a warm teacup on a winter morning. "Come count the ceiling with me."

And he does. Rumpelstiltskin does, his legs moving before his head can catch up. He sits so gingerly next to her, making very very certain he does not touch. But then Belle reaches out and tugs him down by the collar, and somehow Rumpelstiltskin finds himself lying next to a beautiful young woman on his dining room table, barely an inch between them. He feels her heat like a wall from shoulder to ankle and oh.

Oh, this was really not a good idea at _all_.

"I had," his voice is suddenly too deep. He finds he must cough into a sleeve and start again. "I had expected you would choose a different room," he says. "Once you were familiar with the estate?"

Belle shrugs. Her sleeve whispers against the loose fabric of his shoulder.

"That is where you put me."

"It's no trouble. I can put you somewhere else."

"I imagine you could."

Rumpelstiltskin looks at her. They are far, far, far too close. He can see the little lines beside her eyes, the sweet, small strands of hair curling at her temple. He could… he could _kiss_ her—if he leaned in just a little.

Abruptly, Rumpelstiltskin turns his eyes back to the ceiling.

"You're not leaving the dungeon, are you?" he asks, flat. Pointed. Meant to remind her this monster has teeth. But he is lying on his dining room table at just past three in the morning, and beside him, Belle laughs, deep and low and no, this was not a very good idea at all.

"You could try to convince me," she offers. "But I very much doubt it."

* * *

><p>They have tea once, at midnight. Between stories, Belle tells him, "You know I hate that cup."<p>

Yes, he does.

Rumpelstiltskin smiles at her over the darkened dining room table. One finger scrapes along the damaged portion of the cup.

He remembers lying next to her here. Then forgets it, just as quickly. Some things are better left forgot.

In any case, he smiles. (In the daylight, he will assure himself it was a smirk.)

"Can fathom why, dearie. It's just a cup."

Belle shakes her head, hides a smile. Asks him about the newest of his books.

Rumpelstiltskin finds himself looking forward to forever and a long association with her strange and midnight teas.

* * *

><p>Rumpelstiltskin does not often have to sleep—one of the many upsides to a kingdom full of magic at his beck and call. However, it is <em>pleasant <em>and he'd very much _like_ to.

Except as it turns out, the _downside _to a kingdom full of magic at his every beck and call, is that sometimes, all that bloody racket makes it _impossible_ to drift off.

Perhaps some tea, he thinks.

Rumpelstiltskin remembers to dress before he leaves his chambers. Remembering to dress seems to have become a habit. Once upon a time, he might have strolled around naked, but blue eyes through the moonlit dark across a dining room table had been unsettling (very very pleasant—but let's not mention that) enough.

He puts on a coat for good measure. Wanders down to his kitchen. The hallways there are empty and he begins to relax (not at all eager) as he peeks through doorway after doorway and finds no one sleeping there inside.

(Idly, he thinks he should put a fireplace in the dungeon. If Belle intends to stay down there.)

Rumpelstiltskin walks inside the kitchen and stops short. On his many stoves, things are bubbling away. Sauces, stews, gravies. Judging by the smell, he suspects at least one cake is baking. A plate full of chocolate biscuits rests in the middle of the table. Nearby stands Belle, chopping up tomatoes.

"Good morning," she greets, as though this is a perfectly normal thing to do. Of course the early morning in a strange man's home is the perfect time to bake. "Biscuit?"

Rumpelstiltskin blinks and laughs. "Whatever are you doing, now?"

"Well, right now, I'm waiting for the muffins. After that, I thought maybe some bread." She points at a bowl with her knife. "Lift the towel there and tell me if that's risen."

Rumpelstiltskin almost does. But then he remembers that this is his kitchen, in his home, and this woman is _his _captive, thank you very much, and _he _had never asked for _tomatoes. _

"When was the last you slept, dearie?" he asks. He wonders if maybe he should be careful of her knife.

Belle sets her mouth when he won't move, leans over the table to lift up the hem of the towel with the tip of her blade. Whatever mess waits inside displeases her.

"Mm. That'll have to be for lunch tomorrow, then."

She goes back to chopping tomatoes. Something on the stove comes to a boil. Belle eyes it and it settles down.

"_Belle_," he says, arms crossed, with just enough foreboding.

But the girl has lost her mind—or at least, lost all fear of him. She barely even listens. "Hm? Oh, about an hour tonight, I think."

"If you can't sleep in the dungeons, dearie—_move_."

"It's not the dungeons. I expect it's left over from the Ogre War."

This… this feels unexpectedly… _bad_. Rumpelstiltskin presses a hand to his stomach without thinking, but there is still no new curse. Belle sees him, says, "Have a biscuit. I'll put tea on in a moment. Just let me finish this."

And he knows better. He knows. He thinks if he'd like another pleasant midnight tea, he had better keep his fat mouth shut.

(He has never been very good at shutting up.)

He asks her, "What was it the war did do to you, love?"

Belle scrapes the tomatoes off into a bowl. Adds some kind of seasoning he did not know he had. "Would you prefer a pastry? Or perhaps some garlic bread? I'm really quite good, as it turns out."

Rumpelstiltskin understands these wounds. (He thinks he may have heard about her brother once.)

Gently, he sits down at the table and takes a biscuit. He watches Belle's face, lit in profile. She seems pleased.

"I could make you something, if you like," he offers, "to help you sleep."

Belle glances at him through her lashes, then turns her back, returns to her bubbling concoctions on the stove.

"Or you could sit and talk with me," she says, so gently he thinks he must have misheard.

But he knows these wounds. He knows loneliness. He thinks he might be starting to know her.

"Alright," he agrees and she lights, as though he has given her a gift.

It does strange, pleasant, creeping things to his stomach. He can think of no other place he'd rather be early in the morning, unsleeping, with a madwoman chopping vegetables in his kitchen.

Rumpelstiltskin smiles and says, "Have I ever told you the story about the frog?"

And wakes.

To cold and damp and dungeon walls.

And his eyes catch a _wee _black mouse scratch-scratching in the corridor outside. A _wee _black mouse full of wicked old witch, and she thinks she's being quite clever today. Really, quite clever, as though her magic would not wake him a mile off with a pounding headache and sweaty palms.

"It's just us, dearie," he says, ignoring the ghosts and wisps of broken, hopeful agonies past. "You can show yourself."

And then, there is queen. So worried. So, so worried. Wanting to pry more secrets out of him. As if she hasn't done enough damage already.

Soon, there will be threats and treats and promises and games full of lovely sharp teeth. Rumpelstiltskin counts the bugs in the wall, the dragon in the earth, the desperate souls in the whole wild world as he waits for her to _get to the point_—

And somewhere, there is a pantry full of forgotten things, the little notes she left reminding him to eat. And somewhere, she is rotting in the earth. And somewhere, there is a chipped cup waiting for midnight tea in castle slowly crumbling to dust.

And Regina simpers, he threatens, she whines.

And Rumpelstiltskin wonders.

How long yet until he, too, is nothing more than unloved bones?


	18. Godiva

Seysev prompted: "You'll do whatever I say"

* * *

><p><strong>Godiva<strong>

* * *

><p>Here is a story that could have gone a hundred different ways.<p>

Gold ambles late into the diner, whistling. A dozen varied "pleases" crowd the corners of his mouth. There's a weapon in his pocket—some small, sweet reminder of Regina's long lost love.

But when he finds her, sitting by the window in their usual spot…

He cannot feel his fingers. His heart seizes, weeps—pummels hard against the battered bone-cage of his chest.

And he has no weapon made for this.

(Here is a story that could have had a happy ending.)

Regina smiles at him over a coffee mug and a manila folder, gestures to the opposite seat with one fine-clawed, manicured hand.

"Mr. Gold," the words fall like serpents from her delighted, bloody mouth. "So glad you could make it. Please, sit."

He props his cane against the table, slides inside the booth.

And at the wall beside Regina, Belle bends her face over a drawing. A stack of colored pencils form a wall against her elbow, her bastion a bucket full of chalks. Colors suck her fingers, her nails so blunt and chipped, a hundred different kinds of dust.

And she does not look up.

"What is this?" he croaks. "What have you done?"

Once, they were friends, of a sort. His apprentice.

Of all the millers' daughters in the world, he had to have picked her.

Gold feels her talons clenching in his gut.

"I've found you a gift," Regina says, so sweetly. "You seem to have misplacedsomething precious. I do hope you find this an… _adequate _replacement."

He can't breathe. At home, safe in a bedside table, there is a tiny teacup swathed in cotton. Blue around the rim, like a sweet pair of eyes he can barely remember.

(Here is a story he could have changed.)

Regina's eyes are dragons, waiting in the smoke. Across the diner, the waitresses huddle by the counter. They will not come any nearer.

He feels their eyes like weights across his shoulders and he shudders.

"Oh, how rude of me." Regina smiles, touches a hand so gently to the sweater on Belle's shoulders. "Belle, dear? This is Mr. Gold. Do say hello."

Blue eyes lift from a drawing full of pink and sky. And Gold cannot breathe. He cannot even try. His heart is dead and still and broken. His body is an agony, every inch a new and stunning pain.

She is not different. She is not scourged or cleansed by flames. She is empty and so very, very far away.

And Belle says nothing. Merely waits.

"What—" Gold has to stop, clear his throat, and try again. "Whatever are you drawing, dear?"

So sudden, Belle lifts her picture and rips the page in two. She hands him half. Rolls a crayon wrapped in blue across the mile of Formica stretched between them.

Gold looks down. He finds a naked woman, flesh like the inside of a shell. She rides a pink and glistening stallion across an ocean of night sky.

When he looks up, Regina is smiling, _smiling_, open like a skull. "She wants you to draw."

"So I gathered." He reaches out. He is shaking. The crayon slips like sand between his fingers, rolls away. Belle catches it without looking, drops it back into the pail. Gold clenches his teeth, fists a hand into the muscles of his knee. "What is it you want, Regina?"

She smiles, taps the rhythm of a torture against the edges of her cup. "Want?"

"You wouldn't have dragged her out of wherever… _dungeon_ you've been keeping her unless there was _some_thing from me that you _want_."

_Dungeon_, he thinks. And gods above, the history in that word _hurts_.

But Regina only smiles, spreads her hands like wings upon the table and says, "Why, Mr. Gold. I'm here for _you_."

She flips open the manila folder and he sees hospital records spread out like dying leaves. "If Belle is to leave the hospital, she needs a guardian. I thought of you. I understand this will be a great responsibility. If you're not interested…?"

"Name your price."

Regina smiles, her sharpened teeth a chasm in the earth.

"Cooperation, my old friend. I find I need an ally in these… trying times."

"Emma?" he says.

She smiles.

"Oh, and just another little matter."

"Name it."

Regina lifts a shoulder, oh so elegantly shrugs. "You'll do anything I ask. Whenever I ask." Leans forward, her eyes a battlefield. "So long as I say _please_."

(Here is a story in which a thousand different characters could have won.)

Gold doesn't think. He swallows, once, and says, "Done."

"Wonderful," Regina grins, wields a pen. "Sign beside the X."

The paper swims in his eyes like a parking lot in summer heat. He sees parchment behind illusion—medical transcripts, contracts, _Her Grace_ sleeping sweetly beside _Belle._

He signs his name twice.

_Rumpelstiltskin_

_A. U. Gold _

(Here is a story in which he could have saved his love.)

"See? Now wasn't that painless?" She gathers up her papers, slips them neatly in her leather case. Closes the locks like barred doors slamming shut. "I have to go pick Henry up from school. You two have fun."

(Here is a story in which he did not run fast enough.)

Regina sweeps outside, humming, and Gold is left a broken man, his heart raw and battered on his sleeve, sitting across from the woman he loved—_loves_—needs.

Belle takes a roll of tape from her bucket, carefully patches her picture back together.

She sees him looking and smiles, the barest raw twitch of her beautiful lips.

"Godiva and the Emperor aren't wearing any clothes," she whispers. "It's getting awfully cold."

Gold swallows. The world swims.

"Come along, love," he says. "Let's get you home."

She gathers up her bucket and her paper, rises from the table with a hundred pages in her hand. Gold guides her by the shoulder. He can smell the sunlight in her hair.

He thinks of the woman on her paper, shell pink and shivering astride her starlit horse.

And this is a story that could have gone a hundred, thousand ways.

But here, today, Godiva and the Emperor aren't wearing any clothes. Winter comes tomorrow.

And it's getting awfully cold.


	19. When Spring Comes

Anon prompted: You kissed me quite (in)sane

* * *

><p><strong>When Spring Comes<strong>

* * *

><p>Not long after she escapes the hospital in a flurry of paperwork and scampering newspaper men, Belle slips back into her place in the world as though she has never left. As though she is a puzzle piece, a missing cog, the last card to a deck.<p>

As though she has always belonged here, minding the front counter of Mr. Gold's shop while he deals with some tedious, time consuming minor breakage in the back.

Belle enjoys the work, what little work it is. She dusts. She labels. She reorganizes. Gold will see her latest efforts to manage the hoard, shake his head and sigh, but whatever small adventures the afternoon holds, mornings always find her with a cup of tea and an old book of some breed or another, waiting in a dusty strip of sunlight for customers or the curious to arrive.

This particular morning happens to fall on a Thursday—a school day—so it is with some trepidation that Belle looks up from her book to find the mayor's son barreling through the door, clutching an enormous tome.

"I finally found you," Henry announces without preamble, dropping his heavy book onto the counter. "I was starting to think you'd never show up."

Belle eyes him warily, though she does not know why. He is just a boy—a lonely boy, an outcast like herself—searching for companionship in all the darkened crevices of the world.

Belle takes a deep breath. She casts her mind towards safer footing—somewhere between this cup of tea and its mate, resting beside a black-clad elbow in the next room—and takes a sip.

"You were looking for me?" she says over the rim. "I can't imagine it took much. I'm always here."

And Henry explains. Or tries to. Something about his book, a curse, a whole world trapped within their town. And he is so… _earnest_, showing her page after page of goblins and men, balls and battles and the tight, unhappy intermediates. After every page, he glances up at her, searching her eyes until, at last, he points to a woman on the page without a face and says, "That's you."

The woman is a dark blot, stark against a tower window, possessing only outlined eyes and the suggestion of a bright red mouth. Henry looks at her, expectant.

They always want so much from her. Belle overcomes discomfort long enough to pat his hand. (He is only a child; not a trap.)

"Don't you remember?" he seems to be pleading. This massive child, this creature somehow vast and greater than itself. "You have to remember. Please, _try. _I know this is weird, but if you don't. Belle—"

"Henry." Gold says from the doorway. Belle frowns. She had not heard him stand. Odd. Normally his chair makes so much noise. "Your mother won't be happy to find you here, I think."

And Henry protests, of course, a tiny monster frightened of a larger, older beast. "I just need to talk to Miss French a minute."

But Belle knows the cant of Gold's shoulders, the worrisome glow in his eyes. A trespasser in his den. He will be cruel, soon.

"I don't remember, Henry," Belle says, to shoo him safely out again. And then, to the disappointment in his eyes, "It's alright. I don't think royalty would suit me."

It is enough, apparently, to send Henry on his way. Easy as that, and a few begrudging, backwards glances, they are alone again.

Belle turns, smiles at Gold. She finds his face drawn inward, somehow taut with pain. She puts down her book and goes to him, tucks her head so neatly beneath his chin.

She thinks he smiles, but it's a pitiful attempt. She cannot feel it in his chest.

"You've always seemed to me to have a certain royal carriage," Gold murmurs, stroking her hair. "Certain you don't remember sending soldier boys to war?"

Belle laughs, gently, a summer wind whispering through her voice. "If I had a history, I certainly wouldn't choose _that_."

"No," he murmurs. "Of course not." And then, after a moment, "What _do_ you remember, if I may?"

Belle shrugs. This is a subject which makes so many so uncomfortable. She wishes they would learn not to ask. There's nothing left in that darkness to confront.

"Nothing," she says, and moves to slip away.

Gold catches her, his fingers on her shoulder. Pleading.

"Nothing?" Thunderbirds coast the night sky of his eyes. "Not even me?"

Belle has no answer for this. None that will not hurt. So she kisses him instead, though she feels him shake beneath her fingers, hairline fractures spreading outward from her palm. She whispers something soothing into the corner of his mouth, pulls him down to her again though his heart breaks somewhere deep beneath the earth and his lips pull back in pain.

When his eyes flicker open, they search hers, demanding answers she no longer has.

If there is a curse, it isn't broken.

"It's gone," he whispers. "It's all gone. You've lost so much."

And Belle is blown back. So much _grief_ for a girl without a history...

She closes her eyes against his chest and searches her far corners for a flicker of familiarity. But there is not a sound, not a twinge, not a single whispered memory in the widening abyss.

"It's alright," she says instead. "We'll make new ones. We have time."

"We don't," he whispers, but he will not explain.

Belle sees Moe French once, in passing, as she and Gold walk towards the diner. She doesn't recognize him. Only when Gold goes unsteady at her side, his hands white against the handle of his cane, does she understand.

"My father?" she asks.

Gold grinds his teeth and nods.

This man—heavyset, thick jaw, hands like a butcher—he is her family? He is not how or who Belle understands family to be. But he sees her, standing at her pawnbroker's side, and starts. Shifts towards her in tiny, jittering steps.

Gold's shoulders betray a woken monster, and Belle does not know Moe French, but she Gold's threats and fears. She reaches up to stroke a hand in the tender place between his shoulder blades, runs her knuckles down his spine. His eyes close (old dragons are easily tamed) and his fingers loosen on his cane.

The not-father pauses, his eyes on them. Agony consumes the heavy lines bracketing his chin. Across the street, he turns, and swiftly walks away.

She feels a distant sense of loss, like a hollow wind chime in her chest.

"I hope he finds what he's looking for," she says.

Gold growls and shakes his head.

Belle cannot read the expression in his face. She lets her hand fall from his shoulders.

They walk the rest of the way home in silence, instead.

A Sunday, Belle stands at the counter making tea for a lazy morning and newspapers in bed. Gold ambles up behind her as she pulls down the mugs, closes his arms around her stomach and buries his nose in her hair. Belle smiles, leans into him as much as she dares.

"Good morning, you," she murmurs. "What happened to our lie-in?"

"You got out of bed."

"Is that not how it's done? I thought it might be improved with tea."

She feels his laughter, a hot breath against the back of her neck. "Apparently you're a little rusty on the details."

"Mm. I'm sure you'll teach me."

Belle smiles. At her elbow, on the stove, the kettle starts to whistle. She hefts it up and stops, seeing for the first time the chip along the edge of the second cup.

"Oh." She sets the kettle down again. "This one's broken."

Inexplicably, Gold's fingers tighten on her arms. "You can hardly see it."

It seems so odd, this dragon of hers, stricken by such a small thing. She finds she must remind herself to breathe. "It's just a cup. Here, I'll get you a different one. You'll cut your mouth on this."

History sleeps in the waters here. Belle feels him swallow. His hands fall away. When she turns, she finds him with two fingers brushing idly the scarred corner of his lip, and does not know what to do.

His eyes seem empty, somehow, something at last and finally broken that cannot be replaced.

"Yes," he murmurs. "I suppose you're right."

And gently, so gently, Gold drops the broken cup into the bin.


	20. Blue Sunday

Anonymous prompted: pillow talk

I got this prompt ages back, but couldn't think of anything to do with it that actually resembled a plot. So, whatever. Fuck it. Here's some pointless fluff.

* * *

><p><strong>Blue Sunday<strong>

* * *

><p>Belle wakes to steady drizzle and a mouth full of Gold's hair. It is not an auspicious beginning.<p>

She snorts, then remembers not to wake him, and gently pulls the sodden hank out. _Very romantic_, she thinks, _all the happy endings will want some of this_—and starts laughing again, half smothered in the sheet.

"It is far too early for you to have _possibly _found something to giggle at already," Gold mutters into the crook of his arm. "Go back to sleep."

"It's nine-fifteen, it's not too early." She thumps him lightly on the side. "And your hair was in my mouth."

"Hm. Is that why I'm damp?"

"You're damp because the air conditioner cut out again last night. I'll help. Here." She touches her toes to his calf and giggles when he jumps.

"How are you always frozen?"

"I'm a dragon," she grins at him over the (flowered) pillow between them. "Cold blooded."

"Cold blooded my arse. Come here, you," he grumbles and rolls over, tugging her into his chest. Belle wriggles backwards until their hips nestle properly—big spoon to little—and twines her fingers with his hand atop her belly.

Gold puts off a surprising amount of heat for such a slim, compact man. Some mornings, tucked together, with the sunlight streaming through the window, she thinks she can feel the magic moving through him. A sluggish trail of unused spells and sullen sorcery waiting for the war.

But today, he is simply hot. It is the middle of July and their air conditioner doesn't like the spells Gold uses to patch it back together. But coastal Maine means rain—thank god—and the passing storm pissing down outside should at least cool the house down some.

Belle closes her eyes and smiles.

"What shall we do today?" she murmurs.

He chuckles. She feels his breath like feathers down her spine. "This."

It's as good a plan as any.

Belle kicks off the sheet—too_ hot_—and settles back to sleep.


	21. Thrice

Marchionessofblackadder: she wore white that day

* * *

><p>Thrice<p>

* * *

><p>Once upon a time, there was a queen and a monster. Evil, perhaps, but evil is relative. Both are loved, so how can one say they are evil at all?<p>

Nevertheless, once upon a time, the queen built a tower without a door. In it, she imprisoned the woman the monster loved best in all the world. To save for later, an ace in the hole. She told the monster his love had died.

But this woman—the monster's lover—could not be trapped. Strong and clever and so, so very quick, she cast a curse of her own. Not at the queen, no. The queen was a powerful sorceress and the woman knew it'd never take.

She cast the curse on herself. And bewitched her hair to grow.

And grow. And grow.

And where her hair touched the ground, it became briars and thorns. So when the queen sent her clerics to test her soul, they plucked out their eyes on the thorns. Bloodied and blind, they could not climb inside.

And so the woman watched from her high tower window the crimson stained nettles below. She took a pair of silver scissors from her vanity drawer, sheared off the rest of her curse-riddled hair and sat herself down to wait.

She wore white that day.

* * *

><p>Once upon a time, a later time, there was a dungeon deep within the earth. The queen—somewhat closer to evil, perhaps, these days—imprisoned the monster's lover here, instead, believing if the tower fell, it would break the curse of thorns.<p>

But the thorns' roots ran too deeply in the earth and the curse could not be broken.

Only change.

And so the woman rested in a cradle within the belly of the ground, embraced by thorns still stained with the blood of her enemies. And no matter how she tried, the queen could not get in. She could only pry open a hole in the thatch work of briars and thorns barely large enough for a single eye.

And when she guarded her face with spells and peered inside, the queen found the woman staring back, black eyed and smiling, a dragon in her den.

She wore white that day.

* * *

><p>Once upon a time, still later, the thorns pulled back from the dungeon deep within the earth. The queen—evil now, surely—had a swiftly turning war on her mind and could hardly be said to notice.<p>

The woman certainly didn't.

When the thorns opened, they lifted her out of the earth. And she strode across the battlefields in bare feet, over Main Street and Le Prince, past the library and the diner and the bakery with its scent of sunlight and new bread. She walked to where the sky sat draped sweetly blue over a squat little building, opened the door and smiled at the sound of chimes.

Behind the counter, in the far dark and dusty end, the monster looked up from his legers and war plans. He found his lover, whole and hale and so long lost, smiling in the doorway.

"Belle," he whispered and rose and crossed the room so quickly his bad knee did not have time to bend.

The woman raised her arms to pull him down, kissed him with the passion of a thousand writhing thorns.

Outside, bits of falling curse tore rivets in the ground.

"I missed you," she whispered, into the mouth bent against her own.

"Marry me," he whispered back.

The woman laughed. "Alright."

And she wore nothing else that day.


	22. Persephone

Dreamingrain prompted: Persephone

* * *

><p><strong>Persephone<strong>

* * *

><p>They both know the way this story goes.<p>

The woman wearing Spring-light in her hair agrees to live with a monster in some darker country to the south, and finds not a monster there, but a lonely old man.

A lonely old man who forgets to eat and is miserable at getting stains out of the dragon skins he insists on wearing—despite the heat and the chafing he will not admit to. A lonely old man who, despite all protests to the contrary, is not actually as old or as grumpy as he'd like the world to think, but who shouts when love is mentioned and tries to break the promises _(forever) _he swore he'd keep.

And the woman wearing Spring-light in her hair, well, what else can she do but eat six seeds from the red belly of a pomegranate? There are only so many ways, after all, to say, "Stop being silly. I love you. Now, shut up."

No, they both know the way this story goes. But Rumpelstiltksin—Mr. Gold—is being stubborn. And this aggression will not stand.

So, one afternoon at the diner, when he is tired and his leg is sore and he is not paying nearly enough attention to the fingers of her left hand, Belle steals the key to his shop.

* * *

><p>She opens early the next morning, before the sun is barely up at all, and smiles out the window at the baffled faces passing by. When Gold comes in, at half-past seven, he is unshaven—a wolf—and already ready to fight.<p>

"Belle," he says, hardly through the door. "This won't work."

And his eyes want to be cold, so cold, but Belle understands the secrets in the slant of his shoulders and they all say _I love you _and _I'm scared. _

So she steels herself, another tower against the wind. She says, "I think it's working fine. Shall I put the kettle on?"

Rumpelstiltskin glares at her—Gold, rather. _Gold_. He scowls, on the wrong side of his counter, threats lining his brow and the precise placement of his fingers on the runemarks of his cane.

"No. I'm not the man you remember. I never was. You made me up, dear."

"I think I made you up inside my mind." She stretches her fingers in a dusty beam of sunlight. Thinks, poetry is new. "Sylvia Plath. Though I prefer Bukowski. I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead, and all that."

"Belle—"

No. No more. She is tired of this. Her ankles are swollen and she wants a cup of tea.

Before he can finish, she snaps, "You're too old."

This stops him dead. Gold looks up, his heart a bleeding wreckage in his eyes. "What?"

And she smiles to ease the blow, because she loves him, even when he's wretched, and reaches across the counter to brush her fingers against the back of his hand.

"That's what usually comes next. Before your monologue of monstrosities. You're too old, I'm too young, I've got so much life ahead of me, blah-blah-blah."

Jaw tense, fist tight, his shoulders bunch beneath the excellent cut of his suit and Belle would like nothing more than to smooth his tension out.

"This isn't a _joke_," he snarls.

And Belle hates to see him hurting, but she has pomegranate seeds yet to eat.

"Oh, you're skipping the middle bit, then? Because we haven't gone through the list of all the questionable things you've done."

"I've _killed people_, dearie."

She shrugs, stares him cold in his dungeon-black eyes. "So have I."

And this, finally, stops him. Because in the story that he knows, the woman wearing Spring-light in her hair is clean and pure and innocent, not to mention empty-headed as they come. And the woman wearing Spring-light is a victim, a lovely prize to be rescued. She is not brave, whatever she says. She is not a warrior.

But Belle has fought and died and _won_—risen from the earth and ashes a new sort of bird.

This is only another battle; less painful, more dear.

"You've… _When_?" he asks. His voice catches. His free hand twitches on the edge of the counter. She thinks that he wants to span the distance, to touch her, but will not allow himself the weakness. Still, he whispers, "oh, Belle."

She smiles sadly and explains, "The queen's clerics. I summoned a wind that pushed them off the tower."

Rumpelstiltskin—Gold, now, and she really must remember—seems suddenly incapable of speech. She adds, "You had an extensive library. I'm quite good with wind. And sudden drizzles, but that hasn't come in handy yet."

Abruptly, his voice returns. "Could have torn yourself apart on that kind of power! You little idiot, what were you _thinking_?"

Belle glowers. She snaps, "I was thinking: oh look, those fiery brand wielding men don't seem very friendly."

The wind blows backwards from his sails. Slowly, so slowly, Gold nods. He circles around the counter and walks to the back room to slump into his chair. Belle breathes. She breathes. She lets the irritation go.

And follows, as she always does. Every warrior needs a quest.

For some time, they stay in silence. Belle tends to the kitchenette, cleans a little, fixes two cups of tea. Neither cup is chipped. When she returns, Gold receives his like a well-trained monster, but says, "This changes nothing, dearie. You've too much life left to live."

Belle smiles, sits and sips her tea. "I love you."

"You _remember _me," he snaps. "You're used to me. It's not the same thing."

"I'm _used _to a padded cell. You don't see me running back there."

"Oh? Well pray, what is this then, dearie, besides another kind of prison?"

"A child hazard," she says, and shrugs, then hides her hands so they'll stop trembling on the handle of her mug. "We'll have to put rubber stoppers up. I won't have our daughter bashing her poor head off every corner when she comes to see her papa."

Gold drops his cup.

"Our daughter?" he manages, notices their story's symmetry and tries to smirk. "Was… was that one a quip?"

Belle swallows. She has come this far and heroes must be brave.

"It won't be in six months."

* * *

><p>And they both know the way this story goes.<p>

The woman wearing Spring-light in her hair agrees to marry the monster, so long as they elope to his sunlit house together. And somehow, with some new magic, she changes this monster into a happily married man.

A happily married man who is still forgets to eat and cannot work the washing machine to save his life. A happily married man who, despite the protests of his knee, carries his daughter on his shoulders and teaches her to dance on the tops of his feet; who smiles when love is mentioned and swears to uphold the promises (_forever) _he swore so long ago he'd keep.

And the woman wearing Spring-light in her hair, well, what else can she do but sit down and eat the whole damn fruit?

There are only so many ways, after all, to say, "Stop being silly. I love you. Now, shut up."


	23. Hope

I got 200 followers on Tumblr! _Two hundred. _WOW. So I wrote this as a thank-you.

Not a prompt, just gratitude.

* * *

><p><strong>Hope<strong>

* * *

><p>It has been twenty-eight years since Gold last saw Belle, and he doesn't believe in true love, anyway. Grief, yes. Regret. The vast, unfillable sense of loss where Belle's wasted potential should have lit the sky in shining, fairy tale colors. But not true love. Never love.<p>

He believes in heartache and failure.

So when he discovers that Belle is not dead, that she has been found—rescued—from the hospital basement, his heart does not break. Of course, this is the way the world _would_ work. Butterflies, he thinks, are only made for others to pluck their wings.

He sees her once, in passing, from the window of the diner as she climbs into the sheriff's car. And his breath catches, certainly, but he doesn't stand or speak or make a spectacle of himself. And when Belle is safely tucked and buckled in the passenger seat, he does not crane his neck to watch the squad car pull away.

It has been twenty-eight years. He does not know her. He deserves no piece or part of her.

She has a fresh start, now. A new life.

Gold wishes her happiness, bids her retreating back goodbye, and cuts his hand bloody on the handle of his cane.

He does not leave the house for days. If there are any who wonder why the pawnshop is not open, none have the bravery to ask him to his face. He thinks perhaps he will leave it closed forever. Thinks he will build a new world, a new curse, to bury himself in. Thinks he will destroy the world and rot amongst the ashes, dust among dust, until the very end.

Gold wanders his house, from kitchen to attic and back again, until his knee screams and threatens to give out on the stairs.

He does not hold a cup she broke in a past life. He does not whisper her name to the shadows.

When the doorbell rings, he ignores it. He wanders to the kitchen, puts the kettle on.

Takes it off again.

The doorbell rings, and he ignores it. He hobbles to the study, where his curtains are nailed shut and intruding, would-be visitors cannot peek in to see him—a tiny, crippled old man in an enormous leather chair.

"Mr. Gold?" someone calls outside. A child's voice. A boy's. Perversely, he thinks, _Baelfire_, to feel the knife clenches further in his gut.

It is Henry, of course—who else?—but he's still not getting up.

"Mr. Gold, I'm not leaving until you come out."

He closes his eyes, wills the boy in silence to disappear. He is hurting. Is this so unfathomable? Do they think he cannot feel, cannot _want _more than he can find at the destructive, barren end of a deal? He _wants _to be left alone. A monster in his cave, licking his wounds—he wants to bleed in peace.

"It's just, I don't think this is the kind of conversation we should have while shouting through a door."

If he ignores the boy, certainly Henry will leave. Eventually, he must leave.

"Your kitchen light is on, you know. So it's a little late to pretend you're not home."

Gnashing his teeth, Gold heaves himself to his feet despite the flare of agonizing pain—_he deserves it; he earned it—_and storms into the front hall. He throws the front door open, he _glowers_.

But Henry only blinks.

"That won't work. I told you, I'm not leaving."

"I suspect you'll find a call to the mayor will, in fact, remove you from my stoop."

"You won't. I know what she did, and I know you don't want her here anymore than I do."

Gold closes his eyes, breathes through his nose. This is true. If he saw Regina now, the possibility stands he might kill her. Something messy and inelegant like a gunshot to the face. Ruin his curse, his future. But then, why not? What has he left to lose beside the opinion of a woman he does not love?

Still, Gold takes another deep breath and tries, "Your other mother, then."

Henry shrugs. "Go ahead. Emma's just as upset with you as I am," he says. And then, "She's been asking about you."

And he is about to tell the boy just where Emma can go with her questions, but the slight inflection of the latter sentence catches up to him. He asks instead, "She?"

Henry smiles. "Open the shop tomorrow."

Gold slams the door. He is halfway back to his darkened den before the letter flap flips open and says, "You're a coward, Rumpelstiltskin."

Ice water floods his veins. An ocean crashes in his ears. Damn him. _Damn him. _Damn him and Regina both. And while he's on the subject of damnation, why in everlasting _hell _did he ever put the curse-breaker's boy in Regina's fucking kingdom?

"Leave me alone, son," he snarls, feels spells already snaking on his tongue, lashing rivets in his gums. "I don't have time for your fairy stories today."

"Why does everyone in this town forget I've _read the book?" _Outside, Henry sighs._ "_Mr. Gold, I _know_ who you are. And I know you'd never hurt a kid. So if you want me off your stoop, you're either going to have to let me in or carry me off yourself."

"I can leave you there to rot, as well. Good _day_, Mr. Mills."

"Oh, yeah, because Emma wouldn't have anything to say to you about _that?"_

Ah. True. Damn it all, too clever for his own good. Head strong as his mother. Emma _would_ barge down here with hellfire and good intentions and damn it all he just wanted a little goddamned abject misery to wallow in.

Gold retraces his steps and opens the door.

"You have five minutes, Mr. Mills. Use them wisely."

Henry grins.

"I'll make you a deal. Just open the shop tomorrow and trust me."

"I don't think you quite understand how deals work." He must make a conscious effort not to grind his teeth. "In order for an agreement to be struck, each person must have something the other wants. You, Mr. Mills, have nothing I could possibly—"

"True love?"

The words are an ill-timed punch to the gut. It hurts, but Gold is prepared. He sneers, forces himself to breathe and loom and he is not a tall man, but he can certainly intimidate a child. "There is no such thing."

"There's Belle."

This blow is not so ill-timed. His walls do not withstand the force of her name. For a moment, he closes his eyes and cannot breathe.

When the world filters back to him in pieces, Gold's fingers find the doorknob. "I believe your five minutes just ran out, Mr. Mills."

"Listen, Rumpelstilts—"

"Do _not call me that."_

"Alright. Do you want me to keep it a secret, then?"

Gold stops, halfway to swinging the door shut. "Ah. I see." He should have known. Should have known. _Regina. _She's corrupted the boy. "And I take it the price for your silence is my cooperation?"

But Henry only stands on his front stoop, blinking back at him. "What? No. I just thought you might rather Emma not know. Or maybe you don't want Belle to realize she's right."

The innocence is a ploy. The boy is far, far too clever by half. He's caught a bigger fish than he knows what to do with, but Gold has no choice but to follow along with this damn hook in his jaw.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean if it bothers you that much, I can just not mention it. It's not like—"

"About _Belle_," he growls.

Henry, as always, remains unfazed. "Oh," he says and shrugs. "She remembers. Like you."

"She…"

"The Evil Queen kind of remembers. But only in bits and pieces. That's why she wants my book. But you remember. At least, I'm pretty sure you do. You created this curse, right? And everybody here does what you want, including the queen, so…"

Gold swallows, struggles to force his mind ahead.

"And… _Belle _remembers? Everything?"

Henry shrugs. Again. An awful habit, and apparently the extent of his personal expression. "She remembers more than the queen. Maybe as much as you. I don't know. She doesn't like to talk about it, so I try not to ask questions."

Gold snorts. It is an indelicate noise, but it carries his point across. Like his mother, like both his mothers, Henry is wonderful at ignoring his displeasure. He only grins, shrugs again, "I said _try_."

And then, "Listen, I have to get back. Just open the shop tomorrow, okay?"

His head is swimming. His whole body hurts. Twenty eight years. _Twenty eight years._ It is his only coherent thought rising above the din of ogres and old battles in his ears. At last he thinks to nod, because otherwise, the boy may well remain on his stoop forever. "Very well."

"You won't regret it!"

"I very much doubt that," he says, and as Henry turns to scamper down the front path, Gold ducks back inside.

(_"You're a coward, Rumpelstiltskin!")_

Gold swallows, digs his knuckles into the wrenching ache of his stomach and limps off to bed. He has eighteen hours before he opens. The more of them he spends in blackened oblivion, the better.

He opens at eight, as is his usual, tense, the curse playing merry hell with his knee, magic running haywire down his spine. But he flips the sign to _Open _and nothing happens. He sits down behind his counter, and nothing happens.

He waits and still, _still_, for the next five hours, nothing happens.

Gold begins to think he has been tricked. He occupies himself in the back, but his heart isn't in it. When he tries to fix a long-broken clock, the springs jump from his fingers at every opportunity, and the gears sprout wings when he turns his face away. He tries to make coffee, but the liquid flows backwards, back into the cistern behind the pot. In the corner of his back room, two candle sticks begin to dance.

Eventually, he makes tea instead—tea is hard to damage—and ventures back into the shop to sit on his hands.

He finds Belle walking through his door.

Their eyes meet. She stops, one foot barely inside the threshold. In a doorway of his own, Gold freezes. Behind him, in the kitchenette, something sounding suspiciously like the coffee maker explodes. Three doves fly out of the back room and over Belle's head.

She's wearing Mary Margaret's clothes. Something soft and pastel that doesn't suit the warrior woman he knew. Her hair is much shorter than… than when he saw her climbing into the sheriff's car. It curls under her ears and tickles the nape of her neck. But the dark circles under her eyes have mostly gone. She looks healthy. Flush.

Gold swallows. He realizes he is staring, but cannot will himself to speak. His hands close on air. Those blue eyes, so much undimmed, are fixed on him. She is staring, too, at least. He wonders what she sees.

He watches her chest rise and fall beneath her blouse, a deep breath, and then she steps inside his shop. Belle closes the door behind her. She glances at him, breathes again, flips the lock and turns the sign.

"You've been avoiding me," she says.

Gold considers lying. His knee makes a convenient and forever ready excuse. But he will not—_can_not—make himself a cripple in front of her.

Instead, he whispers, "Yes."

Belle nods. Her jaw is taut. She walks to the counter. Gold does not leave the safety of his doorframe. There is little more than wood and glass between them. He has never, even when staring down dragons, felt more vulnerable than he does now.

"I had hoped to see you there," she says. "When I got out."

"I'm sorry," it is an insignificant drop in an enormous well.

Belle shakes her head, sweeps her curls from her eyes, sweet lips pursed in irritation. "You're sorry for the wrong things, you know."

He swallows again past the lump in his throat, but he has no spells, no words for this. He is a man of weapons, but this is not an obstacle to be fought in the way that he remembers. He cannot speak. His hands are shaking. Pain chews like teeth, grinding down his knee.

"Why did you come here?" he asks at last.

Belle meets his eyes. "I don't know."

"I sent you away. You needed me and I…" he must pause because the word hurts, hurts like a knife in the side. "I _abandoned _you."

But Belle only shrugs. Her face is set, so hard, like stone.

"Yes," she says and the words seem so much softer than her eyes. "You also broke your bargain. But it's alright. I think I forgive you."

He staggers forward, drops into the chair behind the counter and it is too close—far too close—but if he does not, he will crumple. But, of course, the breakage comes just the same. Twenty eight years, twenty eight years of _her pain_. He hides his face in his hands. His shoulders begin to shake.

Quietly, he hears Belle ask, "Would you like me to leave?"

He cannot say _no, _but he certainly cannot say _yes. _Instead, he whispers, "You deserve far more in this world than I could ever give you."

"I thought you might be happy to see me."

"I thought so, too."

"I should go."

_Do the brave thing,_ she told him once. _And bravery will follow. _

He lifts his head. Swallows. "I love you."

But Belle only watches him miles away on the opposite side of his counter.

"No, you don't," she says and her voice is dark. "You don't even know me."

She's right. She's right and he knows she's right. A single year, a broken kiss, more than a quarter of a century ago.

"I could, though," he protests. "I _want to_."

She has the patience of a saint, but she glares at him just the same. "You swore my friends and family would be safe, forever. And then you hurt my father."

Rage explodes, fever bright, "You'd protect him? _Him_? After everything he did to you?"

Belle takes a step back. "Everything he did to me? What in heaven's name are you talking about?"

And then, silence, a bitter black wave closing overhead. He cannot feel his hands. He whispers, "You don't remember."

"Remember _what_?" she snaps. "Exactly what are you accusing my father of?"

"He _hurt _you, dearie. Trapped you in a tower. Sent in clerics to cleanse your soul."

"He did nothing of the sort."

"You don't remember."

"I _remember _the queen locking me in yet another fucking dungeon while you went off to terrorize the countryside," she snaps and _snaps_ and her eyes are flashing warnings as her fist thumps down on a nearby desk. "No one hurt me. I was warm, well-fed. Bored out of my mind, of course, but only because I refused to humor the queen. Because of _you_, you ass. Out of some… misguided _loyalty _to _you_."

"What?"

"She offered to train me. Spells, magic, power. So long as I promised I'd betray you."

"And you refused." He chokes. This truth is hard to swallow.

"And I bloody well refused." She glares. "So off you go and bludgeon my father. I think Emma was right about you."

"_No._ I was told—"

"_And you believed it_!" she snarls. "You believed it, because it was _easier _to wallow in your bloody useless self-pity than actually get off your _ass _and face the consequences of your actions."

And he is on his feet too, teeth bared, raging, "I moved _mountains _looking for you."

"And if you'd asked for _help _maybe you'd have _found me._"

The words are like a slap to the jaw, cold water. He reels back under Belle's cold stare, those blue eyes flinty, furious.

"Oh, you never considered that, did you?" she says, voice tight and full of so much hurt. "How do you manage being a supremely arrogant bastard and such a damn _coward_ at the same time? You are only _one man_, Rumpelstiltskin. My father held a _kingdom_. An entire kingdom full of ears and eyes that would have happily gone to work searching for me—if only they'd known I wasn't scrubbing floors with _you_. "

It takes a monumental effort to breathe. Belle stares him down, her fists clenched at her pastel sides, looking furious and _strong_ and the flowers on her would-be armor whisper lies. This woman is not timid. She is not small and sweet. She is old and hurt and furious, and would happily destroy him.

"I never thought—" he starts.

"No, you didn't." And then Belle sucks in a deep breath. He realizes she is shaking, too. Trembling from head to foot. "You didn't."

_Do the brave thing._

Slowly, he limps around the counter and draws Belle into his arms. He expects a fight, a protest, but she sinks into him, presses her face into his neck, her fingers fisting wrinkles on his vest.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, strokes her short, new curls. "I'm so sorry. You're right. You were always right. I'm sorry."

"I wanted to hate you," she chokes, and he realizes she is crying. "I wanted to hate you _so much_."

"You'd have been right to."

"It would have made everything so much easier. I could have rescued myself. I could have joined the queen."

"I wish you had."

"You bastard," she sobs. "You complete fucking _bastard._"

Gold swallows, presses his cheek into her hair. "I am. I know. I'm sorry."

"True love, my ass," she says and through her tears, hiccups a laugh.

He closes his eyes against the hurt and history, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Not quite what it says on the tin, is it?"

"We were lied to."

"Perhaps we didn't read the contract closely."

"You broke my father's _ribs_."

"It would seem I owe him an apology."

Belle laughs. She pulls away, wiping her eyes on the back of a sleeve. "Yes," she says. "That would be a nice start."

There's a promise there, behind her words. Gold ventures, "A start?"

"Well, the queen went to all that work keeping us apart for a reason and I hate _her_ far more than I can pretend to hate you. You apologize to my father, you do a _damn _good job of wooing me, we might see where this goes."

Twenty eight years, but she has not changed.

If anything, she has distilled.

Gold smiles. And he knows better. He knows there is no such thing as love, true or otherwise. He knows this will all end in heartbreak, in grief. But he cannot help his smile.

And the twinge in his heart feels like hope.


	24. An Elegy of Sunlight

Chippedhearts prompted: Her laugh isn't the same

Tardis-librarian prompted: You win or you die

* * *

><p><strong>An Elegy of Sunlight<strong>

* * *

><p>Gold finds his front door not only open, but broken, shattered to splinters in the dust of his walkway. Wood slats jut from the ground like jagged teeth, singed and burned. Immediately, he reaches out with hoary tendrils of seldom used magic to quell whatever fire rages inside, but he finds nothing. No smoke. No spark. Only a small flicker of life.<p>

Fingers clenched tightly on his cane, Gold touches with his other hand the gun he carries always in his pocket now. It cuts his palm with cool, comforting corners as he drags himself up the vast front steps, feeling every one like a dagger through his knee.

What more, he thinks, can they possibly hope to take from him?

And Gold expects to find a man waiting with shoulders like ogres that will fill the doorways of his cavernous home, but instead, when he sidles into his living room, he finds a woman who stands barely higher than his chin. She wears a sundress—yellow—her back to him, chestnut curls haloing outward like a storm.

And he is expecting a monster, but she turns, and his breath catches like birds.

"_Belle," _the word is a shock, a blow, but speaking makes it true.

She smiles, lifts her hands and Gold shatters.

She is _alive. _His brightest spark, this beautiful girl—his warrior, his lover—alive and whole and well again. His heart swells, soars, batters against his chest, laughter on the wings of birds thick in his throat, burning his eyes. He can barely speak at the sight of her.

She is here, and she is whole,and she is _smiling at him_.

"You came home," he whispers, hoarse with joy, reaches out to meet her lifted hands. But Belle laughs. She laughs, and spins away.

And her laugh is not the same.

"Don't I know you from somewhere," she drawls. Then, grinning, snaps her fingers. "Oh yes. I remember now. Something about _no one could ever, ever love me._"

Gold reels. He feels the world begin to crumble beneath his feet.

He has imagined their reunion a thousand times, but she was dead, and the fantasies were only that—dreams; so bright and clean and hopeful, full of warm bodies and _I forgive you _and happily ever afters. But now that Gold begins to see where he should look, there are cracks in Belle's smile, and an abyss stares back behind her eyes.

He swallows, clenches tight his jaw. "Why?" he growls, chokes, pain. "Why did you come here?"

She laughs. She laughs, this wretched creature, but her laugh is not the same.

"History will have its trinkets," she says, and shrugs. "Whores will make their demands."

"The queen?"

Belle spins, a harsh, jerky gesture, one hand above her head. "The _queen. _Your friend, the _queen_." And suddenly she is cold and very still, those blue eyes on his face. "And now the question is, do _you_ remember? _You sent me away_."

They stand ten paces apart—Gold in the doorway, Belle atop an ornate red carpet from a thousand years ago. All around her is a wreckage of vases and history. Behind him is an empty, gaping maw. The world is wrong. The whole, vast world is wrong.

He swallows. He breathes, "I remember."

Belle bares her teeth. "Rumpelstiltskin."

The word strikes him like a blow, like raw fire against his skin. Gold turns his face away. "Not anymore."

"Always," she snarls, something near a smile.

"Belle—" it's almost a plea. But she laughs. She laughs, and her nose still wrinkles, but her laugh is not the same.

"Not anymore," she says.

And it is his turn to whisper, "Always."

She shrugs the words off like water, catches them in the storm of her turned hair, and starts to prowl the room again. "Where is it, anyway?" she asks. "Three floors is a bit much for a man with a bum knee. I've been up and down for hours but I haven't found a damn thing."

In a flash, no warning, Belle overturns the coffee table, and sets the wood aflame. It shatters into pieces, like three lost cups against a stone wall. Belle kneels to sort through the wreckage of splinters. She finds only a remote and a half-finished Sudoku, tosses both over her shoulder and stands up.

Her eyes catch on the hutch beside his shoulder. She smiles and starts forward, but Gold lurches, lunges, meets her halfway. He tries to find the words to break this spell, but there aren't any. Desperate, he kisses her instead.

Her lips are chapped, her teeth sharp. Belle melts into him. He feels every corner, every softness, like a burning brand. Red hot slippers made to dance, and dance.

She brings her hands to his face, plays her fingers down his chin and Gold thinks, _please, please, please, _as she groans into his open mouth—heat and need and lust and history—and suddenly _bites down._

He jolts back, away, and bleeding. Belle laughs, wipes borrowed blood from her mouth with the back of a singe-marked hand, and her laugh is not the same.

"It's a little late for kisses, Charming," she tells him. "I'm not cursed—I'm _broken._"

Gold touches a tongue to the split in his lip, hisses at the pain. These words hurt worse, though. He murmurs, "So I see."

And as he pulls a handkerchief to stem the flow of blood, Belle flings open the cabinet where a moment ago he stood.

Gold starts forward, means to pull her back. There are parts of himself he cannot lose again.

But it's too late. It's been too late for twenty years. Her eyes fall on the tiny cup, its place of honor—safety—snuggled between his trophies and his deals. Belle freezes. She sucks in a breath as though she has been struck. "You kept it."

And for a moment, for the barest breath of instant, a cruel, bright streak of hope paints the night sky of his mind and Gold thinks, he hopes, maybe it will be enough.

"I love you," he whispers.

He sees her swallow. The corners of her lips twitch down without her say-so, a sudden rictus of grief. He wants to say, _"You know me. Please, come back. Come home,_" but it's a thousand years too late and he no longer knows the words.

Belle bares her teeth. "To think I was ever scared of you," she snarls, her voice so broken and so rough.

Gold cannot breathe. His throat is swollen. His mouth tastes too much of blood. Somehow, the whole world has gone hollow, leaving only the two of them, a wreckage in the sunlight and the mud.

His brave girl. His warrior. How could anyone do this to her?

He whispers, "You were scared of me?"

And she growls, "_Were." _

Gold sees her hand move, lurches forward, mouthing spells and wordless protest.

The teacup paints a pretty arc over Belle's shoulder, catching tendrils of the setting sun.

He forgets his cane, hears it vaguely as it clatters to the ground. And time obliges him. It slows. But he is old and he is crippled and he cannot move fast enough, not even to catch his last comfort's shattered pieces.

Agony sears up his right side as he hits the carpet on his knees, his once-teacup only a spider web of shards and blue-flecked dust along his floor.

"Oh, why the long face?" Belle smiles, all pain and too many teeth. "It's just a cup."

Gold spins. He tries to stand and falls again, his knee wrenched sideways out of joint. "What did she do to you?" he bellows and he's not crying—he's in agony, he's empty. "What the hell did she _do_?"

The setting sun seems to set Belle's briar-riotous curls aflame.

"It hardly matters now, does it? The time for heroic rescues passed." She shrugs, as though this is no big thing. "Anyway, I'm here for your knife. The rather _large _one, that goes with your… estate_._"

Gold wants to sink into the ground and close his eyes. How can he face this thing Belle has become? There are monsters, now, too hideous even for him. Here is the only bright spot in his three hundred years, the only happy memory he could ever use to fly, the only thing that ever kept him going.

Mangled. Butchered. _Monstrous_.

This is so far beyond the nightmares that sometimes wake him sobbing in the night. Gold had not realized there were worse tortures than scourges and flames, worse losses than lies and wasted time. He sees now, new horrors ride these days.

And Belle laughs. But her laugh is not the same.

"The way I see it," she says, "there are two options. Either you give the thing to me and serve me and do… oh, _everything _I please… Or I find your knife myself, and give it to the queen."

Belle was right, Gold thinks, all those years ago. There is place inside himself that will never be filled.

"Why would you do that?" he asks, and his voice is lost and flat.

"Because you hate her. Because you left me to rot. Because a little birdie told me you broke my papa's arm." She grins, all teeth. "An eye for an eye, and all that. Though, you blacked one of those, too. Shall I hit you?"

"If you like," he says. He wants to die. Slowly, he wrenches his knee back into place, biting his cheek against the pain.

Belle smiles, and offers him his cane. Gold takes it, wincing, pulls himself upright again.

"You seem so fragile," she says, almost friendly. "It's funny. I'm sure you were taller twenty eight years ago."

Gold wants to hit her, to shake her, to _change _this awful thing. He fists a hand into his pocket instead, stubs his fingers on the trigger of his gun. Thinks. Thinks maybe.

Maybe.

He feels a thousand seas away. But something should be done, he thinks. She can't go on like this. His darling girl. His new monster…

But Belle smiles. Somehow this is worse, because her smile is _just_ the same. She reaches in the pocket of her sundress, lifts her hand and lets a stream of bullets fall. They clatter to the carpet in a rain of muted thuds between her feet. Like tiny, hungry mouths, they kiss the ancient tea-stain.

"Nice try," she says. And laughs.

And her laugh is not the same.

Like a mantra, he repeats it to himself, anything to keep his feet on the ground. And no, he didn't save her, but it's too late for saving now. Her laugh is high and harsh and cold (like his, like fucking _Rumpelstiltskin's_.) A last hope, a desperate chance, Gold readies himself a spell.

"I love you," he whispers, and flicks his wrist, lunges forward and presses the spell between her lips while the humor still cascades through her lovely, broken face. "Always, Belle, I promise."

Marble shatters outward from her lips, over her flushing cheeks and wild hair—envelopes her, his darling Belle, and turns his vicious warrior girl to stone.

Come morning, Gold leaves her in the garden, laughing amongst the roses with her summer dress lapping at her knees. In the sunlight. In a place he thinks she might have loved.

And whispering her elegy, Gold limps—already broken—off to war.


	25. Creeping Myrtle Baby Dolls

Marchionessofblackadder prompted: "Charcoal", "Periwinkle", "Egregious", "Tailcoats", and "Snails." And "dinner party". And then she came around again later and prompted "secret poison box"

I wanted to write something that would make you feel unclean afterwards. I think this does the job.

* * *

><p><strong>Creeping Myrtle Baby Dolls<strong>

* * *

><p>Everyone has their little quirks. Her father had collected little frogs. Said it reminded him of his youth. Regina thought he'd never really gotten over the whole incident with the prince and the iron bands clasped tight around his heart.<p>

So her mother had been forward, spinning spells to keep. Regina really can't see all the fuss. Hardly worth mentioning, at all. Then again, her father was a simple man, and Regina's tastes are anything but.

She collects dolls, and she must only have the best.

Belle, for instance, is her favorite.

* * *

><p>These days, her dinner parties are her greatest amusement.<p>

They use the Silverhand dining room this evening, red rimmed and dominated by a heavy wrought iron-tree table, decorated with tiny finger bones. Regina sits alone at the wide, warped edge with her back to the wall. Rumpelstiltskin takes his seat at the head, at her right, his shoulders braced against vast and open space. She does so enjoy watching his skin crawl.

Henry, of course, sits docile and sleepy at her left side. And her favorite doll, sweet Belle, to Rumpelstiltskin's right.

Because what are dolls, after all, if you cannot rip out their stuffing?

"Good evening, my dears," she greets as Rumpelstiltskin drops, teeth grinding, into his seat. He wears a tailcoat to these affairs, charcoal black. Mourning gear, no doubt. What little defiance he can afford at this late stage of the game. Regina doesn't mind. She rather likes to watch him walk in all that tight, dark leather.

Belle dips her head. "Good even, ma'am," she whispers.

Rumpel flinches. His fingers twitch, once, an instinct crushed beneath his thumb. Regina smiles. Tonight, she thinks, will be one of the more entertaining.

"So, Henry," she says as she lifts a black velvet bag to her lap and removes Rumpelstiltskin's knife. "How was your day?"

"Fine."

"Only fine?" She places the knife to the right of her empty plate, strokes her fingers down the blade. Rumpelstiltskin jerks in his seat. "What did you do today?"

"I went to the stables. Like you said. Grome taught me to ride."

"Oh, yes? Which horse?"

Henry will not meet her eyes. "Apple."

And his refusal to look at her hurts—it does—but hardly matters. Regina pulls back her lips in a smile, reaches over to stroke his hair. "That sweet little mare? A good choice. Did you have fun?"

Henry nods, once, his eyes on his plate, the edges emblazoned with folded hands. Her smile hurts less this time. "Good," she says. "And Belle—did you enjoy your day in my library?"

Belle presses her fingers to the edges of the table. Against the hoary wood, her skin is white and cold. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good," Regina says. "Good."

And the servants slip from the walls with plates and platters, tureens piled high with food. The scents mull together, filling the high-ceilinged room. Rabbit simmered in thyme and butter, stewed in white wine. Quail roasted in honey and cumin and orange. Venison hearts, charred but rare. Pearl onions, braised in a dry blackberry set down fifty years before. Leeks in rich boar broth and heavy cream. Caramelized peaches. Garlic laced greens.

And apples—an orchard of apples—poached in bitter liquor.

When their plates are filled and silver fingers buried, Regina lifts Rumpelstiltskin's knife and begins to cut her meat.

In the well-shined belly of a spoon, she sees his fingernails bite into his thigh.

Regina smiles—she knows it is her smiles they hate the most—and scoops a touch of vegetables onto Henry's plate. "Eat your carrots, dear," she says. And then, a moment later, "Not that fork."

Henry only nods his head. To her right, Rumpelstiltskin's knuckles are white around a tiny, delicate knife. And the Silverhand room is quiet, filled only with the soft sound of passing servants and the touch of forks on food.

Across from her, Belle sits silent, her head bowed, fingers barely touching the handle of a spoon. She stares at her soup, but does not move.

Starving herself. How quaint. This really will not do.

"Belle, dear," Regina says. "You need to eat. You're much to thin."

Belle lifts her head, quick like a deer, her eyes darting somewhere left of her coiffed and coiled hair.

"I'm not hungry, ma'am."

"I don't recall asking if you were. Eat."

She sees a flicker from the corner of her eyes—the clench of Rumpelstiltskin's fist. "Leave her alone," he growls.

And Regina smiles. She scratches a nail against the flat of her blade. "What was that, Rumpel?"

He shudders. He swallows. "She's a grown woman. She'll eat when she pleases."

In the other dining rooms—Psyche or Hedone, or once, when Regina filled the Golden Ballroom with a massive table of ebony and oak—the conversation had not nearly been this good.

"Oh, certainly." Regina shrugs. "But if she doesn't please, it may be something serious. Stomach conditions can be quite treacherous."

At her side, despite the spells that sedate him, Henry stirs. "Mom, don't," he murmurs.

Regina neatly bites an onion in half between her sharp, white teeth. "Whatever do you mean, Henry? I'm only concerned for the poor girl's health."

"It's alright, Rum." Belle's voice is soft. She begins to pick at the potatoes in her stew, tiny little bites hardly large enough to feed a mouse. Rumpelstiltskin's hand disappears from the table. Belle's, too.

Immediately, Regina glances back into the belly of her well-shined spoon, uses it to scry in place of her mirror. They've kept weapons hidden beneath the table before.

But today, she finds only their hands clasped tight like children between their seats, white knuckled and afraid.

How delicious.

"You're certain you're feeling well, Belle?" Regina asks to probe the wound.

Belle's head dips. "Yes, ma'am."

"Perhaps I'll call the doctor, regardless. Mustn't let these… little problems go to seed, after all. Although, I believe I heard some clerics had come to town. Perhaps you would rather—"

"That's _enough, _Regina!" Rumpel thunders and suddenly, he stands, furious and seething with power. "You leave her _alone_."

Oh yes. Regina smiles and leans back in her chair. They'll have to use this room for meals more often.

She regards Rumpelstiltskin with an appraiser's eye, follows the line of his well-tailored mourner's suit. She does_ so _enjoy a pair of trousers with a tasty fit. And his thighs are looking rather more well-muscled of late. Belle putting him through his paces, no doubt.

Still, the monochrome pallet has rather worn out its welcome.

Slowly, Regina reaches out a nail and strokes the knife from tip to head. Rumpelstiltskin tries his best, the dear, but can't grind his teeth hard enough to keep from shuddering.

"Sit down, Rumpel," she says. "And do mind your manners at my table."

Legs buckling, he sits. Beside her, Henry winces. "_Mom_," he whispers.

But Rumpelstiltskin snarls, "This is an egregious abuse of power, Regina."

"An abuse of power?" She smiles. Smiles and smiles and watches that dear, froggy face of his twist up with hate. "Your power is _mine, _Rumpelstiltskin. It is meant for exactly what I say it is. Nothing more."

"That well may be, but Belle has done _nothing _to deserve this."

Regina shrugs.

"And what has she done to deserve _other_ than this?" She goes back to cutting her meat. "Oh, and while I'm thinking of it, tomorrow, wear something with a bit of color, won't you? Perhaps one of your old suits?"

Rumpelstiltskin clenches his teeth. "Fine."

She puts the knife down, eyes him over a slender carafe. "I'm sorry, were we having a friendly conversation, or was that an order?"

His jaw clenches. He looks as though he wants to spit. Regina watches him struggling with past compulsions, a snarl on his lips.

"My apologies," he growls at last and follows it with, "_Yes, ma'am_."

"Thank you, Rumpel," she says and smiles. "Now don't forget to eat your carrots, too."

* * *

><p>Later that night, when Regina retires to her rooms, she sparks a mirror full of magic, and as she undresses, watches her dolls cuddle together in their lake of silken sheets.<p>

"We have to do something, Rumpel," Belle murmurs, her voice choked, muffled by his neck. "I can't…"

"You can. Belle, you _can_," he whispers into her hair, rocking ever so gently. "My brave girl. You're doing so well."

"These dinner parties of hers—"

"We'll make it. I promise."

"She has your knife."

"I know."

"She has _you_."

"I know."

"Those _children_. That kingdom in the western mountains." She chokes and Regina can hear the tears. "You're not a monster, Rumpel. I know you're not."

Regina smiles. Standing nude before her wardrobe, she glances over her shoulder at the mirror.

_Well, Rumpel?_ _Answer her_, she thinks.

But Rumpelstiltskin is a coward and he always has been.

"I love you," he says instead.

And little Belle lifts her head, "Rum—"

"Don't worry. I don't want you involved."

"I'm _already _involved."

"Listen," he says, and sits up on one elbow to better look her in the eyes. He strokes the hair back from her face with a careful, trembling hand. "I've poisons hidden throughout the castle. In puzzle boxes. Trinkets that look like other things. I can't get to her—not with my knife where it is. But I can get to Henry."

Regina's blood goes cold. Silent in her frozen rooms, she snarls.

"He's just a child," Belle protests, but with no vehemence at all.

"I know," he says. "I know. But something fierce and low. He'll suffer, and I regret that, but it'll give me time enough to turn the poison back before it kills him."

"What if she doesn't give in?"

"Then she'll lose a son." Rumpelstiltskin smiles, all teeth and sharpened desperation. "Perhaps, we'll find some solace left to take in that."

Distantly, Regina feels a storm rolling in, showering the horizon in charcoal dark as Rumpelstiltskin's mourning suits.

These nasty, slithering, slimy little _snails_ gone rotten inside their festering carapaces—blind to the world beyond their spiraling, self-absorbed shells. This… this _munity—_this betrayal _will not stand_.

After all she's done for them—letting them, of all people, have their happily ever afters, even now, after they both worked so hard against her. Oh, she has been merciful. She has been _kind, _letting them rut themselves _stupid_ in the deadened hours of the night, pretending to turn a blind eye when she could very well order Rumpel to kill the girl himself.

And… she _could_, couldn't she?

This soothes her. The tension slips from her shoulders. Regina replaces it with velvet robe. She sits down on a high backed chaste lounge, watches in the mirror as Rumpelstiltskin leans down to kiss his girl, trailing long fingers down her porcelain side.

And she considers.

That _would _be an interesting game, wouldn't it? The things she could make Rumpelstiltskin do. Oh, what delicious remorse. What delectable self-loathing and shattering grief. It really would break him, wouldn't it, if she ordered him to strangle the girl with his bare hands. To kiss her sweetly into sleep with poison. To make love to her, perhaps, then stab her with a poisoned comb. These two have no idea the dangerous game they play.

But perhaps… perhaps they do.

If Regina has learned anything from this Storybrooke affair, it's that subtlety often suits her purpose best.

She knows Rumpel has always had a flare for the dramatic. Somewhat more pronounced when she apprenticed with him than now, mellowed by time and several strong losses. But he's quite the melodramatic old fool, and Regina's favorite doll is not quite the coward she paints herself to be. Quite possibly, they have resolved to die in some grand, shattering gesture meant to cow her. Involving Henry, no doubt.

Yes… involving Henry. Because children are as much weakness as blessing.

Regina licks her lips. Her mother had old spells for this.

She rises, fetches a silver kettle and a few jars off the shelf beside her dressing table. As far as spells go, this is one of the oldest, and so simple.

Well water from the spring beneath the place they sleep. An infusion of creeping myrtle—the blossoms the same periwinkle blue as Belle's sweet eyes—for fertility. A tincture of bitter dragon's blood to bind lovers together like closing jaws_._ A single hair—she's saved for just such an occasion—one from each.

In her mirror, Regina watches idly as Rumpel does his best to make his girl forget, his flanks shivering like an overwrought horse as he fucks her into the bed.

Regina laughs in her empty chambers, as hollow as the womb her mother cursed her with.

By morning, Belle will be pregnant. Let them plot her downfall then.

A baby. Humming, Regina readies herself for bed.

What a lovely new doll for her collection, she thinks. Children are so fetching when they're small.


	26. Sing, Phoenix

Anon: Fingers on piano keys

And now, something to make you feel a delightful bit dirty in a different sort of way.

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><p><strong>Sing, Phoenix <strong>

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><p>In the morning, like so many new and perfect mornings, Gold wakes to the sound of someone singing between the clattering of pans. He rises, dresses to reenter the world. Down in the kitchen, he half expects to find Belle as he left her in his dreams—disheveled and glowing and negligibly dressed.<p>

He's not disappointed.

Belle sways a singular waltz over a sizzling pan, wearing his shirt—an old one, from before, all billowing silk and lace. She glances over her shoulder when she hears the tapping of his cane—looking flush and new and happy—and Gold finds his heart still seizes at the sight of her.

"I turned the stove-top on with magic," Belle says and she looks so bright, so happy. A fire lights the sky of her eyes from within. "My binding spells are getting better, finally."

Idly, Gold cannot feel his legs. So he simply stands in the doorway of his kitchen, leans on the frame and his cane, and he watches her. This vast and wondrous creature roaming through his house after all these years alone and dead. Rearranging his things. Pulling down his curtains. Demanding sunlight, so very like a flame.

And she is so, impossibly precious. He wants to hold her, save her, never let that tiny spark burn out again.

"I knew you could do it, love. Just a matter of leverage," he says and he smiles. Of course he smiles.

But inside, he wonders what will happen when the curse breaks and the whole world burns—when the stars drop from the sky and warp into prisons and dungeons and castles full of malignant, darkened eyes.

Will the kingdom still stand for their return? Or will it have changed, too, moved on without its dragons and its heroes?

Belle, he knows, is bothered by none of this. Today, she is making breakfast, and to her, this is what matters. Perhaps tomorrow, she will hunt down yet another of the Queen's heartless men. But for now, she is making breakfast—and Belle smiles with the barest corner of her lips, bidding him _come-hither_ with the bonfires of her eyes.

Gold takes a faltering step forward before he remembers himself, his safety in the door.

A few months ago, he'd have had his way with her. And why not? She is here and whole and _his_ and when she's face-down over the tea things, butting that delectable rump into him and _demanding _so… well, it's not hard to nip and nibble and grind and squeeze and fuck her into the table until she screams. But now…

Belle turns off the stove with a click of her fingers, holding a plate of crepes and cream and late summer fruit. She's begging for it, he knows—and, oh, the many places he would love to decorate with raspberries—but his shirt flows over her swollen belly like a hot waterfall in the morning sun and the everyday newness of it startles him still. This woman deserves all the best things; feather beds and romance and however near to princes as this crippled dragon gets.

So Gold stands awkwardly in the doorframe and doesn't know where to put his hands.

"I have a meeting today." He does not say _with your father._ He finds he craves the ravenous look she's fixed him with.

Belle places the plate on the table and saunters close, smiling, a lion on the prowl. The very tip of a deft pink tongue darts out to touch her lip. "Cancel it."

Gold swallows. He wants to. He very much wants to. But she is fragile now. With child—_his_ child—and he really cannot risk it.

"I've been putting it off for quite some time as it is."

She stands so close he can feel the barest press of her breasts against the front of his suit—a veritable wall of heat. A flush rises up the back of his neck, an ocean of heat and want and _need. _

"It can wait," Belle murmurs, presses a kiss to the hollow of his throat. Her nose is cold—a tiny darting shock against the rising tide of heat. He reaches out his hands to hold her, draws her close, and feels the tight swell of her belly pressing against his.

The fluttering heat abates for something softer. Gold strokes his hands like rain over her arms, down her sides, to the place where his child sleeps.

_(A father again.)_

But then Belle grins—sharp teeth and clever, cutting wit—reminds him all at once why he loves this warrior girl of his.

"I really shouldn't cancel it again," he says, but it is token protest only. Her long, clever fingers are already releasing the knot of his tie, and Belle is walking backwards, leading him towards the table by his loose ends.

"My father is thrilled to be having a granddaughter. And he hates you. He will be delighted to ignore you for another month."

Gold can't help his smile. He catches her and pulls her close, all heat and softness and sharp teeth on his collarbone, soothed after with a kiss. Not for the first time, he thinks holding her is not unlike trying to catch a phoenix.

"He mentioned our arrangement?"

"I put his tax papers in order yesterday," she tells him. His suit coat drops forgotten, puddles on the kitchen floor. "These things come up."

And so do other things, it seems. His shirt is creeping ever higher over her knees.

"Why, Miss French. Are you seducing me to get your father out of a loan payment?"

Belle laughs. She steps backwards once again, lifts herself to sit on the table's edge. The shirt rides up higher still, just another tantalizing inch, and oh, _oh… _she is wearing absolutely _nothing_ underneath.

"I'm not fragile, Rumpelstiltskin," she says, leans down to lick a dollop of cream with that dexterous tongue, her beautiful, blistering come-hither grin.

No. She isn't fragile, is she? His dear phoenix girl never was.

Gold shudders beneath her fingers, playing him so gently like piano keys. He leans down, steals a kiss and the raspberry between her lips, pulls his borrowed shirt up over her wicked head.

Belle grins at him, her mouth stained red. She crooks a finger. He follows. He falls.

Together, they burn down to blissful, scattered ash.

Perhaps, tomorrow, they'll be born again.


	27. Delirium Dreams of Spring

Anonymous prompted: Petrichor

LA Knight prompted: Delirium dreams of spring.

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><p><strong>Delirium Dreams of Spring<strong>

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><p>Trousers rolled halfway to his knees, Gold stands barefoot in the wet grass behind his house. It badly wants cutting, but Belle will not tolerate acts of aggression against the wild flowers jutting between the seeding hay and dandelions.<p>

So Gold stands barefoot in the spring cool knee-high grass, and watches her dance. Belle waltzes alone, in his overlarge wellingtons, the hem of her skirt catching rainwater from the weeds. The whole world smells of petrichor and regret.

Where once Belle was his tower, now she is only rubble, shattered pebbles down a hillside thick with weeds.

She is utterly insane.

"You should come inside," he ventures, takes a short step forward. "Wouldn't do to catch cold again."

Belle tips back her head. Her hair catches wild in the wind. "And miss the rainbow?" she asks.

"Dearie, the sun set hours ago."

She turns, and when she smiles, Gold's heart batters and swells the tiny cavern of his chest. Her blue eyes are still so bright. So bright, despite the queen's dozen curses sunk like fishhooks in her skull. He wants desperately to hold her, to press his mouth to hers.

But to kiss her is to kill her. The cure is miles worse than her curse.

His beautiful girl. His warrior. His phoenix.

The Queen is long dead—ashes in an unmarked grave—but malice never dies.

It doesn't bother Belle. She is ecstatic simply to be alive again. She laughs and shakes her head, that particular giggle reserved for the unspoken, _"you silly man."_

"Just because it's hiding doesn't mean we can't find it."

Fireflies dance like stars between them, lighting on her arms and fingers. Belle spins, arms wide, tripping and tumbling through his weedy back lot. And Gold goes to her, barefoot, heedless of snakes or nettles, briars or vines. He stops her mid-spin, her back to his front, and simply holds her, breathing in the ozone caught on the tendrils of her hair.

She smells of magic now.

She always smells of magic now.

Twining her fingers through with his, Belle leans her head back against his shoulder, hums and sways. Something he almost remembers. A half-time waltz, a lover's melody. An old world, delirium like dew drops slipping from her lips.

And there is magic in his girl. It catches on his shirtsleeves, sinks into his skin.

He loves her. Gods, he loves her. Loves her so damn much it hurts to breathe.

So Gold spins her, breast to breast, and together, they dance.

His cane falls to one side, forgotten in the grass. And her eyes are so bright, so happy. Belle leans into his unshaven cheek and she whispers, "We won, Rumpel. We _won_."

He swallows and smiles, because she remembers. Because today is a good day—no funerals for trodden flowers, no tears beneath a darkened sky. And when he smiles, she lights, she _glows, _brighter than a bird rising from the ashes of its mother.

"Look," he whispers and points to a slender sliver of sky. "Your rainbow."

Belle shakes her head. She purses her lips tight, forcing the smile down, and bats him lightly on the hand. "You're cheating."

"Yes." He presses his forehead to hers, nuzzles their noses together, because they must never kiss. "I wanted to see you happy."

Belle laughs. She hides her smile in the crook of his jaw and whispers an old half-lie, "I'm not _un_happy."

And she is utterly insane, but Gold will happily live amongst the pebbles of the tower she used to be.

He sweeps a low court bow, rises with cane in hand. "Shall we away, m'lady?"

Belle drops a curtsy. In her borrowed wellies and damp skirt, Gold thinks she looks a queen.

"Always, my lord. Wherever are we off to, today?"


End file.
